Missing D7 Scenes Season Seven
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Here's to the way the story could have ended, and all the things they never got to say.
1. Unimatrix Zero

_1. Unimatrix Zero_

_A little blonde girl in a pink dress. Running headlong through the dark forests of Unimatrix Zero. Branches whipping at her face, tangling her hair, catching her dress. Owls hooting. Twigs cracking under her shoes. Cold. Shivering. Arms wrapped around herself, she runs._

_A clearing. Moonlight on her face. She reels to a stop. A tall shadowy figure stands by the edge of a pond, his back to her. She knows this man; she runs up to him, tugs on his jacket and holds out her arms to him. Pick me up. Take me home._

_He turns around and smiles down at her. He is Human just like her, blond and blue-eyed and handsome, and he is just about to touch her when an unknown force wakes up behind him and begins pulling him away._

_He reaches out, his face distorted, shouting something she cannot hear. She runs after him. The ground shifts beneath her feet – a brown forest path littered with leaves; a gray-carpeted starship corridor; the black floor of a Borg sphere. His shape shifts too – the tall blond man in a blue shirt and slacks; a smaller middle-aged man in a green-and-black Starfleet uniform; another blond with alien forehead markings and a tan-colored camouflage outfit. Fading away._

_With a tremendous burst of effort, she throws herself forward and into his arms. She is not a little girl anymore; they are the same height, and it's the green-and-black man this time, with the beautiful ugly face and the wide mouth and the hazel eyes. He holds her close, so close, and his lips on hers are impossibly warm and sweet, and her hands are at his jacket collar ready to slip it off …_

_Her hands … her hands are not made of flesh. They are cold steel, and before her eyes a sharp set of assimilation tubules shoots out of her knuckles and into the skin of his throat. He backs away, his face a grimace of pain, his hand clapped to his collar – as if that could help. It can't. His beautiful ugly face turns grey, a sickly shining bluish-gray, all the veins visible. A Borg implant erupts on his right cheek. Another one on his left eyebrow. His uniform morphs into Borg body armor. He lurches toward her, one arm held out, his own tubules weaving from side to side like snakes._

_Resistance is futile …_

"Oh-six hundred hours. Regeneration cycle incomplete."

Seven of Nine's eyes flew open. She stumbled out of her alcove as if someone had kicked her, so limp with fear and relief that she had to brace herself against the nearest cargo shelf. The metal was solid and real beneath her hands. She breathed deeply, in and out, staring at the green containers. Only a nightmare.

She drew herself up and looked back at her foster-children, who were stepping away from their alcoves in a more decorous fashion. The twins and Mezoti did not appear to have noticed her behavior, but Icheb's eyes were wide with concern. He walked up to her and placed a hand on her arm. "Seven? Are you damaged?"

His question caught the attention of the other three, who turned to cluster around her like ducklings. Since Unimatrix Zero, they had all been rather cautious with her, as if she were a fragile object liable to break. Seven found it all rather embarrassing … but, truth be told, she was glad.

"It was only a dream," she told the children. "A random sequence of mental images resulting from REM sleep patterns. A standard phenomenon of the human brain."

"It looked very disagreeable," said Icheb. "Perhaps you should go to Sickbay."

"That will _not_ be necessary." Seven's tone brooked no objection. The Borg had assimilated plenty of Starfleet counselors in the past; Seven could make a rough estimate of what her dream would look like to the Doctor's psychology subroutines, and there was no way she would let him analyze it.

"Proceed to the refreshers," said Seven, leading the children out the cargo bay doors as per their daily routine.

Her children. Every day, she was grateful that they hadn't posessed the mutation; if the Unimatrix Zero resistance movement had put them in any danger, she doubted if she could ever forgive herself. A starship, especially one under Captain Janeway's command, was really no place to raise a child.

Still, selfishly, Seven wished that they never would find the children's families. Who, besides them, would ever love her the way she was?


	2. Imperfection

_2. Imperfection_

Icheb came to in Sickbay, with an excuciating headache and a general sense of exhaustion. He blinked up at the white ceiling, wondering how he'd gotten there; shifting his head sideways, which took a surprising amont of effort, he saw Naomi's Flotter doll on his nightstand along with a data padd signed by her. He smiled and was just about to reach for the padd when a sound distracted him.

Someone was crying.

_Seven! _He remembered. Seven's cortical node had been failing, and he'd insisted on donating his own, and they'd argued across a computer console about who should save whom, and if someone was crying here, in Sickbay, that would mean –

On the other side of Icheb's bed sat the Doctor, shoulders bowed, holding Seven's metal-laced hand between both of his and sobbing, audibly, in a way Icheb had never heard an adult cry before. Seven was still on the biobed, covered by a gray blanket up to her chin. She was not moving.

"Doctor … ?" Icheb wanted to shout, but all he managed was a slow croak.

The Doctor turned around. His face was, indeed, streaked with shining tears; even his nose was red. He was beaming from ear to ear.

"Icheb!" His voice was as delighted as a tear-choked whisper can be. "Thank goodness you're awake! She's going to make a full recovery, Icheb, you both are!"

"Really?" Icheb tried to sit up, couldn't, and settled for an answering grin instead. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely." The Doctor placed Seven's left hand back on top of her right one, stood up from his chair, and went over to smooth Icheb's blankets and review the data on the screen of his biobed. "As soon as she wakes up and gets back on her feet, she'll have to regenerate for about six days. As for you, it looks like you'll need at least two weeks, since you _disengaged_ your cortical node … and by the way, do you realize that once you've passed those Starfleet exams, you could be court-martialed for going against the captain's orders?"

Icheb ignored this, knowing the Doctor well enough by now to realize that his scolding was a sign of affection.

"If she's all right," he asked instead, "Why were you crying?"

The Doctor wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, regarding the holographic water droplets with a faintly embarrassed smile as if he'd forgotten they were there.

"I suppose it's my emotional subroutines … compensating, so to speak, for all that time they were blocked by my medical programming. If we had lost her … I don't know … "

The Doctor trailed off, watching Seven's unconscious form. Whatever he felt seemed to be too deep for words. Icheb felt the silence like a second blanket, wrapped around the three of them. There was no need to say anything.

"Anyway!" Determined to cheer up, the Doctor snatched up his tricorder to give Icheb another scan. "She pulled through magnificently, and it's all thanks to you. Did I mention your plan was brilliant, Icheb? Couldn't have done it better myself!"

This from the man wo had responded to the same plan with _'Absolutely not!'_. Icheb could just picture Seven raising her blue eyes to the ceiling when he told her. And there was no doubt he _would_ tell her. Once she was on her feet again, stern and loving, beautiful and strong. Mezoti, Azan and Rebi had left, for a safer, quieter life than that of a Starship. Icheb and Seven had only each other now, to understand about the Collective and all it had put them through.

"Oh, by the way, shouldn't I call you _Mr._ Icheb?" said the Doctor, distracting Icheb from this melancholy train of thought. "After all, you _are_ a Starfleet Cadet in the making."

Icheb found it very gratifying, the way the whole crew seemed to take his acceptance to the Academy for granted; it made him feel a great deal less nervous – but he drew the line at pre-emptive honorifics, especially from the man who was the closest thing he had to a father.

"Please don't. 'Icheb' will suffice."


	3. Drive

_3. Drive_

Seven, as usual, stood on the fringes of the celebration taking place in _Voyager_'s garland-strung mess hall, watching the rest of the crew drift together into chatting groups or slow-dancing couples. Neelix's jukebox had just started the first song, a historical ballad titled _Because You Loved Me_. The bride and groom swayed together, grinning and whispering, arms wrapped around each other as if they would never let go. They were an eye-catching pair: Tom Paris in his dress uniform (Lieutenant's pips proudly on display once again) and B'Elanna Torres in a strapless, ankle-length, scarlet silk gown, her hair in waves, a gold tiara gleaming above her ridged forehead. Red, the color of blood and life, was the Klingon wedding color; like many young girls (including six-year-old Annika Hansen), B'Elanna must have wanted a dress to resemble her mother's.

Now, twenty-eight years old and part Borg, Seven reflected that her chances of being married were quite minimal. Not that she wanted it, necessarily – if even one date was too difficult for her, how could she possibly handle a prolonged courtship and a partnership for life? Besides … catching a glimpse of her steel-laced reflection in a bulkhead, she glared at herself and looked away. She knew perfectly well that the men of _Voyager _saw her either as a forbidding ice queen (such as Lieutenant Chapman), a platonic friend (Neelix and the senior staff) or a mother figure (Icheb). If any one of them were the least bit attracted to her, he would have shown it by now.

Her first lover, Axum, was likely to be her last.

A bright, warm voice startled her out of her melancholy thoughts. "Let me guess, Seven … you think weddings are irrelevant."

"Let me guess, Doctor … you intend to convince me otherwise."

The Doctor, who had programmed himself into the same tuxedo he'd worn for his gala performance on Q'omar, smiled at Seven and held out his hand.

"That's right. Would my favorite Borg care to dance?"

"Affirmative."

_One, two, three. Quick, quick, slow._ Seven ran through the steps in her mind, activating her chronographic sequencer so as not to misstep, as the Doctor led her gently along the dancefloor. It was the first time they had danced together since that night in Sandrine's, and it felt even better than she remembered. The warm, reassuring strength of him; his hand in hers, the other on her shoulder.

She spun under his arm (_No ligaments to tear,_ she remembered with secret amusement) and met the eyes of a smiling Captain Janeway, who was dancing just a little closer to Chakotay than necessary. They glided past the newlyweds, so lost in each other that the Doctor narrowly avoided bumping into them; Neelix, scurrying after Tuvok with a tray of hors d'oeuvres; Ensign Wildman teaching Naomi how to waltz; even Icheb had landed a dance partner – none other than Tal Celes. His recovery from the donation of his cortical node appeared to be finally complete.

"Now, if that's not an effective argument," said the Doctor, nodding to indicate the scenes of happiness around them, "I don't know what is."


	4. Repression

_4. Repression_

_Voyager_ was in a state of mutiny. Due to the mind-control techniques of a fanatical vedek named Teero, the Maquis crew had imprisoned Captain Janeway in the brig, confined the rest of the crew in their quarters, and taken control of the ship.

Seven and Icheb watched the Maquis security guard standing in front of the doors. They were in Cargo Bay Two, under surveillance in case they tried to use some of the technology in storage. Icheb was visibly frightened, his blue eyes wider than ever underneath his ocular implant. She put an arm around his shoulder, as Captain Janeway might. Or rather the _former_ Captain Janeway … unless they were stopped soon, the Maquis had a good chance of depositing the entire Starfleet crew on the nearest M-class planet like so much unwanted cargo.

"I don't understand," Icheb confided to Seven as they sat together on the base of her alcove.

"You are aware of the history of the Maquis movement and its goals, correct?"

"Yes, but …they are our colleagues, our friends … how could a complete stranger's words make them turn against us like this?"

Seven thought of Crewman Tabor, the young Bajoran whose grandfather had been tortured to death by the medical experiments of a Cardassian doctor. The hot-tempered man she remembered had been replaced by a coldly efficient soldier, not much different from a Borg drone.

How had Teero done it – channelled all those individual thoughts, feelings, motivations and personal histories into a unified collectve of hate? From the Alpha Quadrant, no less, using nothing but an encrypted code hidden in a letter from Tuvok's son. Tuvok had spread the message via mind-melds to the rest of the Maquis, and was presumably still spreading it … although, knowing their steadfast Vulcan, Seven estimated that he would not give up control so easily. Chakotay, _Voyager_'s current captain, was another matter; as the Kradin-Vori war had proven three years ago, he _was_ susceptible to mind-control, especially when his violent past was involved. Still, his actions today defied belief. Seven tried to imagine it – Ms. Janeway being held at phaserpoint by a man she had liked and trusted for six years. It was a chilling concept, and it brought back memories Seven did not care to dwell on.

"Have I ever told you about the time the Doctor's ethical subroutines were removed?"

"No … when was this?" asked Icheb, puzzled by the non sequitur.

"It was before you came aboard … he and I were captured by the crew of the _Equinox_, another Starfleet vessel transported by the Caretaker. Its crew was murdering sentient nucleogenic beings to use them for fuel. When Captain Janeway found out, naturally she felt obliged to stop them, and the conflict escalated until Ransom, the other captain, was prepared to use any means necessary to gain information on _Voyager_'s defense systems. He reprogrammed the Doctor and ordered him to extract the access codes from my neural pathways, which would have left me severely brain-damaged."

Icheb turned paler than ever and leaned into her shoulder, as if assuring himself that she was there. "He didn't … ?"

"He did. Fortunately, _Voyager_ discovered us before he could complete the procedure. Once the battle was over and the _Equinox_ crew safely in our custody, Lieutenant Torres and I returned the Doctor's program to its original parameters. He deeply regretted the actions he was forced to take, and we devised an encryption code to ensure his ethical subroutines would never be violated again. It took me some … effort … to adjust emotionally … but as you know, our friendship continues to this day."

"So, do you believe the same thing could happen today?" Icheb asked, lifting his head and sitting up a little straighter. "For the Captain and Commander?"

"It has been my experience," Seven replied, trying to infuse her words with enough faith and optimism for both of them, "That, while anger is a powerful motivation for an individual, so are loyalty and affection. It is entirely possible that Captain Janeway will persuade the Commander to end this mutiny."

"I hope so."

They sat together in silence, ignoring and being ignored by their guard, resting all their hopes on the bond between their command team and praying that it would be enough.

The shipwide communication made them both sit up abruptly, even the guard stopped pacing. It was Tuvok, saying something in Ancient Bajoran which the universal translator could not convey. Whatever it was, it made the guard drop her phaser, clap her hands to her ears and collapse on the floor. The next voice they heard was Captain Janeway's – smoky, elegant, and utterly in command.

"_Attention all hands, this is Captain Kathryn Janeway … _"

=/\=

The first things the Doctor set eyes on after being reactivated (with an angry speech or two still stored in his vocal processor for Chakotay's discourtesy in deactivating him without permission) were Seven, Icheb and the Captain – followed by a Sickbay filled with more unconscious crewmembers than he cared to count.

"Please state the nature of the medical emergency … or do I even want to know?"

As the Captain explained about Teero, Tuvok, the Maquis mutiny and the mind-control victims they had collected and transported to Sickbay to be cured, the Doctor found a metaphorical chill creeping through his emotional subroutines. If all had gone according to plan, he would have been reprogrammed against his will, possibly even deleted … and, worse yet, Seven and Icheb would have been beamed from the ship without even the chance to say goodbye.

Yet there they were, Seven as breathtaking as ever in her magenta suit, Icheb endearingly awkward with his large ears, lanky frame and baggy brown-and-orange outfit. If not for the Captain's formidable presence, he might have hugged them both.

"The phaser was defective," the Captain wound up, speaking softly and staring into the distance. "Chakotay gave it to Tuvok knowing he couldn't kill me if he tried. Either he doubted Tuvok's loyalty, as he said … or else, even mind-control couldn't get him to hurt me."

It was rare for the Captain to speak so openly even to her friends; obviously the day's events had disturbed her much more than she would admit. Seven and the Doctor shared a look. Was she thinking what he was thinking – a fragment of a song they had never performed since those days on the _Equinox_? _"Dreadful sorry, Clementine … "_

"I believe it was the latter, Captain," said Seven.

The Doctor came to stand behind Seven and Icheb, put a hand on each of their shoulders – _how wonderful to see you, please don't leave again just yet _– and gave the Captain a reassuring smile. "I agree."


	5. Critical Care

_5. Critical Care_

"Doctor to Seven of Nine."

"Proceed." Seven lifted her hands from the keyboard of the Astrometrics console to listen.

"I just called to say I can't go to Fair Haven with you tonight. The Captain's restricted me to Sickbay for the next two weeks."

Icheb, standing next to Seven, glowered indignantly; she couldn't help but agree.

"Why?"

A sigh travelled through the comm system. "Breach of the Prime Direcive. A minor one, but still – I _did_ try to alter the Denari's so-called medical system."

She could imagine the bitter twist of the Doctor's mouth as he said this. Five days ago, his program had been stolen by an unscrupulous merchant and sold to an alien hospital whose treatment protocols were decidedly at odds with his ethical programming. Patients were prioritized according to profession, which left the less skilled among them suffering for lack of treatment. There was a certain brutal efficiency to the system which Seven could not deny, but meanwhile she also understood the Doctor's motives in trying to save those twelve dying patients even at the cost of breaking rules.

"I might have acted similarly in your position," she said, raising her cybernetic eyebrow in response to Icheb's look of surprise. "Especially if I had developed a personal rapport with one of the patients, as you did with Tebis."

His description of that clever, polite, kind-hearted young man sounded terribly similar to her own foster-son. If she had found _him_ in the morgue after being wilfully deprived of medication, who knows what sort of revenge she might have enacted on those reponsible?

"Yes, well … needs of the many, and all that." He chuckled darkly. "Why hesitate to poison one being if you can save twelve?"

That reminded her of his earlier comment on the Denari system: _I hardly aspire to Borg ideals._ Seven winced internally, but resolved not to let her feelings show; after all, _she_ did not aspire to Borg ideals anymore either. And she knew the Doctor; the more abrasive he became, the more severe his emotional damage. His decision to inflict a chromo-viral infection on the hospital's main administrator along with the underprivileged Level Red status (the proverbial 'taste of his own medicine') was affecting him deeply. She hoped it would not lead to another mental breakdown, such as the ones involving Ensign Jetal.

Seven resolved to distract him from the subject of medical ethics at all costs. Quite aside from the inconvenience to the crew, she could not bear to see him fall to pieces like that again.

"Since you cannot come to the holodeck," she said, "I will bring your entertainment to you. You _are_ able to access your audio files from Sickbay, correct?"

"My dear Seven of Nine … " The Doctor's voice over the comm was warm and affectionate; she pictured him smiling to himself. "How did you get to be so understanding?"

How, indeed? She thought of the diagnostic he had asked her to run earlier that day; she had known without being told that he was looking for a malfunction on which to blame his decisions in the Denari hospital. When had it become to easy to read him like a book?

"I had an excellent teacher," she replied.

"Flattery will get you anywhere, my friend. Come down at nineteen hundred hours and I'll replicate the tea."

"I will bring the tuning fork. Seven out."

The chirp of her commbadge cut off his theatrical sigh, which amused her; his barely detectable flat notes were an old joke by now.

Icheb was smiling his rare, subtle smile as he worked on his scan.

"Since you will be absent from the Cargo Bay this evening," he asked, "May I invite Naomi? There's a new educational game in the database I would like to show her."

Usually Seven did not approve of the children staying up past their bedtime (or regeneration time) but his hopeful blue eyes, combined with the importance of her mission for tonight, changed her mind.

"Yes, you may."

Icheb made a mental note: the moment after talking to the Doctor _was_ the best time to ask Seven for a favor.


	6. Inside Man

_6. Inside Man_

To: Lt. Reginald Barclay, Starfleet Headquarters

From: Emergency Medical Hologram, _U. S. S. Voyager_

Subject: Re: Barclay Hologram

Dear Reg,

I got your letter in the last data stream. After your explanation, your holographic counterpart's outrageous behavior makes perfect sense. When he beamed into an escape pod with Seven and took off towards the fold, for a moment I thought they'd both lost their minds. Later she told me he'd de-solidified his hand to reach inside her brain and make her lose consciousness. It infuriates me just to think of it. Your intuition and quick thinking just might have saved her life. She's very grateful ... and needless to say, so am I.

We're also grateful that the Ferengi left Icheb alone. He's the oldest of Seven's Borg foster-children, remember? The other three children have been adopted by a planetside family, but he stayed. His life's ambition is to join Starfleet. I believe the pirates and their 'inside man' either didn't know about him, or assumed, Ferengi-fashion, that as a male he would pose the greater threat. I've rarely seen the boy so angry as when he found out Seven had been abducted; if the fake hadn't been decompiled already, Icheb would have finished him for certain.

She was quite upset afterward, as you can imagine. But she's also a remarkably strong woman, and the Captain, Commander Tuvok and I have all been looking after her. I'm confident she'll recover, so there's no need for you to worry. And actually, I believe the ocasional golf game we've had on the holodeck is proving quite therapeutic. That's my latest hobby, you see. You'd be surprised what an edge Borg strength and an ocular implant will give a player – the first time, I was planning to let her win, but she disabused me of that notion two holes in. I do enjoy that look of triumph on her face.

But for your information: _No._ We are just friends, and have no intention of "altering the parameters", as she would say. So there's no need to keep throwing out hints, because you're about as subtle at it as B'Elanna trying to avoid her next physical. Which is to say, not at all.

Besides ... I've come terribly close to losing her already, several times. About three weeks ago, her cortical node gave out and she nearly died. We had no way of repairing or replacing it, short of kidnpping a live Borg drone. If our brilliant, reckless Cadet Icheb hadn't donated his own node to save her, at the risk of his life ... Well. I may have been programmed to handle death with professional distance, but now that she's out of danger, the very memory of it gives me the shivers. My point is, I'm still so very relieved at her survival - and continuing good health - that I believe I wouldn't care if she never spoke a word to me. Just as long as she kept on working, singing, mentoring Icheb, arguing with Torres and the Captain, and generally being herself. That's enough for me.

As to that hologram, I had my doubts about him from the start. He was arrogant, ingratiating, and utterly inconsiderate of other people's concerns. He hogged my mobile emitter, agreed to play golf with me and then stood me up, mimicked people's voices behind their backs and didn't seem to care in the least whether our "improved" vaccines and shield modifications would get us through the fold alive or not. He lacked all the qualities - creativity; courtesy; honesty; even a certain awkwardness in social situations (no offense, Reg) which make you the unique individual I am proud to call my friend.

I should stop soon, before this message exceeds maximum storage space. I've got a holodeck night with Seven coming up. It's never a good idea to keep a lady waiting, especially one with an internal chronometer.

Yours sincerely,

The Doctor

P.S.: Tell the old man from me that my program is running just fine, thank you, and that if I can interface with an alien computer for four days without any malfunctions (long story; next letter), I do _not_ need another diagnostic this month! And if he doesn't lower his caffeine intake by at least 50%, I'll have to hijack the next data stream to Jupiter Station and pester him for another month!

P.P.S.: As always, give my best to Haley.


	7. Body and Soul

_7. Body and Soul_

Intoxication, thought Seven, was not nearly as unpleasant a state as she remembered. The first time she'd been drunk had been during the inauguration party for that ill-fated quantum slipstream drive two years ago; from a single glass of champagne, no less. Tonight she was on her third one, and feeling good – light-headed, carefree, and every bit as witty and entertaining as her table companion.

The Doctor beamed at her from across his office desk, holding his own empty glass as if to pretend he had been drinking from it. "Go on," he said. "Please."

"Sweet," was the first word she came up with, gesturing with a forkful of apple pie à la mode. "The crust is flaky, dry on the outside, tender on the inside …" She paused. describing food was a lot more difficult than she had thought; especially since her Borg vocabulary was far from satisfactory in that department. The challenge intrigued her; she had already struggled through the foie gras, and was determined that dessert should be a triumph of sensory experience for both her and the Doctor.

"The baked apples are very soft, slightly tart, with a hint of cinnamon … "

The Doctor's eyes gleamed. "Cinnamon? That's a spice, isn't it?"

"Yes, but barely detectable in this instance. It enhances the taste of the apples, but does not overwhelm them. The ice cream is vanilla-flavored, and its cool temperature contrasts quite agreeably with the warmth of the pie."

"Ah yes, that would be Ensign Kim's doing." The Doctor chuckled. "He kept tweaking the replicator program until the apple pies seemed fresh from the oven."

"Much better than prison rations, I can assure you." Seven, under the combined influence of synthehol and sugar, couldn't help smirking a little. "Do you remember the expression on his face when we … when you expressed your satisfaction over that bread roll?"

The surreal fact of the Doctor having been in posession of Seven's body – and her remembering every second – rather dampened her amusement. She did not like losing control of her faculties, even when she'd given it up voluntarily to save his life.

"He was positively appalled, wasn't he?" The Doctor's answering grin relaxed her again. "Poor Mr. Kim."

"You should not have compared his personal scent to an airborne toxin."

"How was I supposed to know?" His genuine indignation surprised a giggle out of her – a soft, musical chime, so unlike the Doctor's use of her voice that it silenced them both for a moment. When she looked up from her plate, he was watching her with an altogether different expression – not amused, but still smiling.

"So that's how you laugh," he said softly, raising his glass in her direction. "I never knew it would be so … beautiful."

_I never knew … _He had said that often during the upload, in a tone of open awe. Today had been a revelation for him, she realized – smells, tastes, touches, everything he'd been denied as a hologram. Much as she disliked the memory of being trapped inside her own body that way, she was glad to have given him the chance. Even though he _had_ overindulged quite a bit. Cheesecake … chocolate puffs … eight glasses of wine … a not-so-therapeutic massage from Lieutenant Jerran …a kiss from Captain Ranik. That last one was especially aggravating, given the fact that Seven herself had never been kissed outside of Unimatrix Zero. To give the Doctor credit, he _had_ pushed Ranik and Jerran away immediately – but the memories remained.

She wanted a real kiss, to be initiated by herself and shared with someone she cared for. Just one, before she grew old as a bitter celibate ex-drone. She wanted it so much, it almost frightened her – and there he was. Her brilliant, difficult, incredibly lovable Doctor. He thought she was beautiful. And he was right across from her.

Her head was spinning again; a painful _whirr _sounded inside her brain, most likely one of her Borg implants reacting badly to the synthehol – but she barely noticed as she walked around the desk, took his face between her hands, and leaned down.

He stood up and – to her horror – backed away, looking every bit as appalled as he (they?) must have looked repelling the unwanted advances of Captain Ranik.

"S-Seven! What _are_ you doing?"

"Trying to kiss you, in case you hadn't noticed."

He darted a glance at her dinner tray. "Seven, you're intoxicated. Your judgement is impaired, you don't know what you're saying!"

A bout of dizziness as she stepped closer forced her to steady herself with one hand on the desk. "My … phy-si-o-logical state … is irrelevant to this discussion. I know what I want … what I always wanted … " Triumphantly, she hit on a sentence the Doctor himself had used during their argument in Ranik's brig. "_You_ told me indulgences are what makes life worth living."

It was getting harder to speak. The words seemed to squirm out of her reach like contrary _gagh_, and the Doctor's miserable expression did not make it any easier.

"I'm sorry, Seven," he said, holding her literally at arm's length with one hand on her shoulder. "But I refuse to take advantage of you in your impaired state. It's not that I don't … I mean, you're really … oh, never mind." He brought his hand up to his forehead and sighed. "God, now I know how Paris felt on Sakari Four. But I promise you," taking his hand away and focusing on her with a stern, mentorly look she recognized from their earliest social lessons. "If we did kiss, or – or anything of that nature, we'd both regret it in the morning. When I crossed the line today, you stopped me. I know you'd want me to do the same for you."

She never noticed the hypospray in his other hand until it hit her neck.

=/\=

She woke up in a biobed. The feel of the sheets, after four years of attracting every possible kind of trouble for a former Borg, was immediately familiar. What was _not_ familiar was the throbbing headache, nausea, and general misery induced by her unique physiology combined with three glasses of wine. She could only remember feeling this way once before … the morning after the party for the slipstream drive.

"I take it," she croaked, "That this is the phenomenon known as a 'hangover'?"

"Indeed it is." The Doctor, as she had known he would be, was standing by her bed with a tiny glass of transparent liquid. "Here, take this. It should clear up in approximately half an hour."

She tossed it down in one shot, wincing at the bitter taste.

"I should have known it was a bad idea," he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair off her face. "One glass would have been enough. That doesn't excuse the other two."

"Three glasses?" she repeated, in dismay. "Why would I consume three glasses of synthehol when I am perfectly aware of its negative efects?"

He sighed and shook his head. "You came to have dinner in my office … to eat and drink for both of us, so to speak. After I took your body – "

"You _what_?"

"After you _uploaded_ my program into your cortical implants," the Doctor continued, turning pink, "and I experienced tastes and smells and so on for the first time, returning to my holographic state was … something of a letdown. You do remember Ranik's ship, don't you? They were on guard against some sort of photonic rebellion … they would've decompiled my program if you hadn't chosen that – unique method of hiding me. By the way, did I mention how grateful I am? You saved my life, Seven."

Yes, she remembered that – the comedy of errors that was his … their? … frantic effort to contact _Voyager_ and escape. It was the time afterward that eluded her.

"I suppose you thought describing your meal to me would cheer me up. And, well, it did … it was a very kind gesture on your part, and we had a lovely time … but looking at you in this state, I could kick myself for not stopping you. Three glasses! I must be malfunctioning." He shook his head and scowled at his tricorder.

Seven had an uneasy sensation, mental rather than physical, but almost as nasty as the hangover. After that party two years ago, Paris and Kim had teased her mercilessly about her alleged behavior – something about clinging to the Doctor and shouting 'We are as one!'. Had she done anything of that sort yesterday? Was _that_ why he looked so anxious?

"How did I … Was my behavior inappropriate?"

The Doctor blinked, hesitated – and shook his head.

"No," he said. "No. You were a perfect lady, Seven, don't worry. You laughed, you made jokes … nothing more."

The idea of herself laughing seemed to open a door in her mind, very briefly. Someone's warm admiring voice: _I never knew it would be so beautiful._ A kiss, or an almost-kiss … but no. It must have been a dream.


	8. Nightingale

_8. Nightingale_

"Doctor," came a clipped, elegant and very familiar woman's voice, "What, _exactly,_ have you been telling Icheb about mating signals?"

The Doctor sighed, put down his test tube, and swung around to face the irate Seven of Nine.

"Welcome back, Seven," he muttered wryly. "It's good to see you too."

She marched across the room, her high heels clicking sharply even on the carpeting, until they stood face to face. "The boy is convinced that Lieutenant Torres propositioned him sexually while I was away, and his conclusion is based on information he obtained from _you._What did you tell him?"

It took a few seconds for his cortical processors to absorb what shehad said and connect it to Icheb's odd behavior the other day, but once everything became clear, he had to chuckle. The continued ice-blue glare she focused on him only amused him all the more.

"He thought B'Elanna … ? Oh, my! Oh dear. No wonder he wouldn't give me the details."

"Clarify."

"He came in here yesterday, red as a Talaxian tomato," said the Doctor, still tickled by the story in spite of his growing sympathy for the young man, "Asking me in _hypothetical_ terms to describe the symptoms of romantic attraction. So, I told him – hypothetically – that with most humanoid species, they include compliments, invitations to recreational activities, excuses to initiate physical contact, an increased heart rate, and a rise in beta-endorphin productions. He left Sickbay blushing harder than ever and hasn't shown his face since. I thought some nice Crewman or Ensign had caught his interest, certainly not a married woman twice his age! I don't know what he misunderstood back there, but whatever it was, surely you realize it wasn't my fault?"

He ended his speech by holding out his hands appealingly, relieved to see how Seven's features had softened. There was even a twinkle in her eyes that showed him she also saw the humor in poor Icheb's predicament.

"He told me she invited him to join her for rock-climbing," she said. "And when he scanned her surreptitiously while they were making repairs in a Jefferies tube, his tricorder indicated an increased body temperature."

"A Jefferies tube, eh? Well, you can see how an adolescent – an _ex-Borg_ adolescent – might misread those perfectly innocent signals as something else."

He shot her a pointed look at the word 'ex-Borg', reminding her of her own not-so-successful forays into the field of dating.

"I understand," she said ruefully.

"So when you take up your next duty shift in Engineering, Mother Bear, be so kind as not to bite B'Elanna's head off."

"I will not mention the subject," said Seven, looking taken aback – but not displeased – at the Doctor's latest nickname.

Taking his cue from her, the Doctor rubbed his hands together casually and changed the subject. "So … on a different note, no pun intended … are we still on for music night? Tomorrow, Holodeck Two, nineteen hundred hours?"

"Affirmative."

"You can tell me all about the adventures of the intrepid Captain Kim and his brilliant Commander Seven aboard the _Nightingale_."

"Please do not exaggerate, Doctor."

He could tell just by the way her eyelids twitched that she had a long list of grievances to discuss about her away mission with Kim on the Kraylor ship. He looked forward to hearing them all.

"Seven, may I … ?"

Spotting something shiny on her face, he leaned close and softly brushed his holographic fingers along the curve of her cheek. She stiffened and blushed, but did not draw away.

"You had an eyelash," he explained, showing her a tiny golden hair.

She nodded, turned on her heel, and was just about to leave the room when she paused in the open doorway and turned back to look at him over her shoulder.

"Doctor … ?"

"Yes, Seven?"

"The 'symptoms of attraction' you described … compliments … invitations to social activities … excuses to initiate – "

"The vaguest of guidelines only!" he interrupted, waving his arms in an energetic barrier gesture. "Highly unreliable in individual cases, as Icheb's example shows."

"Acknowledged," said Seven, more brusque and professional than ever. "Goodnight, Doctor."

With three rapid clicking steps, she was gone.


	9. Flesh and Blood

_9. Flesh and Blood_

The Doctor stood silently in the doorframe of Cargo Bay Two, his eyes locked on the regenerating Seven of Nine, debating with himself whether he dared to wake her up. She was alone tonight; Icheb, according to habit, was still absorbed in a late night study session in Astrometrics.

He had come down here for reasons he was himself unclear about; to talk to her? To ask her to forgive him? Just to see her face, because in the three days since he'd been back on _Voyager_, she hadn't come to see him even once?

_Oh, Seven_. Just the sight of her in her plum-colored suit, her delicate features serene in sleep, her long eyelashes touching her cheeks as the green lights … it gave him the sort of shivery sense of awe that made him understand why so many sentient beings had religion. Because surely a master artist must have created her. The Doctor might have removed most of her implants, but the beauty of her human body was all her own.

_I almost lost her … I almost _left_ her, and for what? A shipful of holographic terrorists and their delusional leader? How could I do it?_

Almost unconsciously, he took a few steps closer. He longed to touch her, to run his fingers through her hair as he had done once before, to brush her face with his hand …

Then she said his name.

"Doctor … "

"Seven?"

Her eyes were still closed; she turned her head, murmuring unintelligibly and shifting her weight from side to side. Her hands clenched at her sides; she flung them out, as if to catch hold of something or someone, and exclaimed: "No!"

Losing her balance, she stumbled out of the alcove – _Regeneration cycle incomplete,_ said the computer – and right into the Doctor's arms.

Her eyes fluttered open and met his – they were wide with fear. He could feel her trembling, like a caged bird.

"Seven, Seven, shush … " he whispered, rubbing her back in comforting circles. "You had a nightmare … it's all right … "

For a moment, she clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder. Then she pushed him away with so much force that he nearly banged into the nearest storage container.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped.

"I was just – well – we need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you." Her eyes cut through him; her entire demeanor was sharp enough to slice duranium.

He held out his hands beseechingly, still unbalanced; what in the worlds was wrong?

"Seven, please – you haven't come to Sickbay once since I came back … "

"If you must scan me, proceed." She turned her back to him, reprogramming the alcove to get ack to her regeneration.

"No!" He threw up his hands. "Just hear me out for a minute, Seven of Nine! I'm here to apologize!"

That was it. As soon as he said the words, he knew beyond a doubt that this was his reason. The Captain had refrained from punishing him; B'Elanna had forgiven him for her abduction after no more than a few juicy threats about reordering his subroutines; Tom was as nonchalantly cheerful as before; even Icheb's shy, respectful manner towards him had not changed ... but if Seven couldn't forgive him, there was really no point anymore in his life on Voyager.

She rounded on him with the steely glint of the Collective in her eyes, and behind that, something deeper: the pain of a woman who felt herself betrayed.

"Apologize? You disobeyed a direct order from the Captain, allied yourself with a group of violent extremists, abandoned _Voyager_ in a time of crisis and nearly caused its destruction, and you believe an apology will suffice?"

"I never meant for anyone to be harmed!"

"_I was there!_" Seven rarely raised her voice; when she did, she was a force to be reckoned with. Like Captain Janeway, she was a woman whose anger could fill up an entire room, even a large one such as the cargo bay.

"I witnessed the holograms' attack on _Voyager_, using information _you_ provided for them! I saw Lieutenant Torres lose consciousness and vanish after preventing a warp core breach which could have resulted in the deaths of us all! You have betrayed your shipmates, your friends, even – "

Abruptly, she cut off what she was going to say. Her cheeks, already flushed with anger, darkened to a deep pink as she looked away.

"I don't understand you, Seven!" It was the Doctor's turn to feel irritated. "Why this? Why now? After what I did to you on the _Equinox_, you had every right to be angry. Instead you … you smiled at me. And teased me about being off-key."

His voice faltered at the memory: just himself and Seven in the holodeck, working out a new encryption code for his ethical subroutines and, later, wrapped up in the beautiful complexities of Chopin and Bach.

She turned a soberly reproachful look on him which hurt worse than her fury before. "You were not yourself. Ransom had reprogrammed you. When you joined Iden, however, you were in full posession of your ethical and rational subroutines."

"I believed I was doing the right thing," he explained, struggling to keep his voice level this time. "Janeway was about to deactivate them like – like machines! Without their permission!" He had always hated her doing that to him, before the days of his autonomy protocols.

"She was attempting to protect them from damage by the Hirogen vessels. The Captain had every intention of aiding them in their search for a home, but not at the cost of violence and destruction."

"Iden swore to me he wouldn't harm a single _Voyager_ crewmember. How was I to know he'd break his word?"

"You were too eager to believe a fellow hologram could do no wrong. As I recall, you displayed a similar reaction to the Isomorph three years ago."

The Doctor winced. That particular hologram had murdered every organic life form on his ship and attempted to do the same to B'Elanna.

"Humans have a proverb," he said bitterly. "_Hindsight is always twenty/twenty_. I couldn't have known at the time what the Isomorph, or Iden and his followers, were capable of. All right, I do feel a connection with my fellow photonics, and I would like to see them all enjoy the same freedoms I've had. Can you blame me for that?"

"No." Some of the tension drained out of Seven as she placed her hands on a storage container, leaning against it ever so slightly as if the argument were tiring her.

"However, I still fail to understand why you were prepared to join Iden's followers permanently. Would you have left m – would you have left _Voyager_ at a moment's notice?"

_There._ That was the raw spot in Seven's soul, the real reason she had lost her temper with him, perhaps even the reason for her nightmare just now. Even now, at this most inconvenient time, something inside the Doctor bloomed with warmth and hope.

_Would you have left me … _Did she really need him that much?

He remembered the day he had nearly stayed behind with the Qo'mar, a species collectively in love with his opera singing. Seven had been angry then as well, puncturing him with scathing remarks about fan mail and cravings for attention. At the time, it had only strengthened his resolve, making him believe that Seven didn't care; didn't understand. But now he knew she understood all too well: he _had_ been to blame for letting the attention cloud his judgement.

"I started regretting my decision the moment I arrived on board," he said, not even bothering to hide the sorrow and tenderness in his voice. "When Iden abducted Lieutenant Torres … when he told me he was starting 'a new faith' with himself as the Messiah … I wanted to go back, more than anything. But I didn't know if you'd still have me."

He deliberately left the 'you' unspecified, so it could refer to either the entire crew, or Seven alone.

"The Captain has reinstated you as Chief Medical Officer without punishment," said Seven. "Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes … I suppose … but what about you, Seven?"

"What about me, Doctor?"

"Could you 'reinstate' me as your friend?"

She turned around to look at him, and her blue eyes were like a summer sky. It was the same look she had given him when they danced at Sandrine's, when they sang together, or when she woke up after a surgery and saw his concerned face leaning over her.

"I've missed you," he dared to say, his holographic heart pounding in his ears.

"Your absence from my daily life has been … disturbing as well."

"Does that mean we can pick up where we left off?" he asked, every photon tense with hope and anxiety.

Her eyelashes dropped. "No."

"What do you mean?"

"I will be happy to resume our music lessons and any other social activity with you, Doctor, but we cannot return to where we used to be."

There was an infinite, bittersweet beauty to this moment, thought the Doctor. Seeing how far Seven had come, how well she could read the currents of affection, resentment and remorse running between them; watching her intuitively feel something that, three years ago, would have taken hours to explain.

She still cared for him deeply as a teacher, as a friend. She would forgive him, but she could not forget his betrayal. The hurt would scar over and fade away in time, but there were no dermal regenerators for the human soul.

The Docor placed his hand on Seven's shoulder, a harmless touch, and let it rest there for three seconds.

"I understand. Are you coming for your piano lesson tomorrow night?"

"Nineteen hundred hours, Holodeck Two. Yes."

"After all," and he put on a gently teasing smile in the hope of catching an answering one from her. "Nobody else aboard this ship can hear me falling off by .3 decibels."

"Finally you admit it," she remarked wryly, sweeping past him to get back into her alcove. "For my hearing to function at optimal efficiency, I need to regenerate. Good night, Doctor."

"Good night, Seven," he said. Once her eyes were closed, he added under his breath: "Sweet dreams."


	10. Shattered

_10. Shattered_

In all his thirteen months of activation, the Doctor had never experienced a day like this. Here was Commander Chakotay, having dropped in from five years in the future in an alarming state of temporal flux (i. e. with the stomach of an eleven-year-old boy, the kidneys of an eighty-year-old man, and the rest of his organs anywhere in between). After repairing the damage with a chronoton serum which, anywhere but the Delta Quadrant, would have earned him the Daystrom Award, the Doctor found himself struggling to pay attention as Chakotay outlined his very dangerous plan for recovering the ship.

"First, I need to convince the Captain we're not enemies," said the Commander, pocketing a hypospray of chronoton serum. "Can't do this without her, she knows the ship better than anyone. Second, we have to get to Astrometrics and find Seven - "

"Astrometrics? And seven of what? Commander, are you absolutely sure you're on the right ship?"

"It's a future installation, Doctor. They have temporal sensors that should be able to tell us just how many time periods are on this ship. And Seven of Nine is a person, a Borg crewmember, to be exact. What she doesn't know about spatial and temporal anomalies isn't worth knowing."

The Doctor was tempted to whip out his tricorder and scan the Commander's brain, or else his own auditory subroutines.

"Did you say - ? Good grief, Commander, you don't mean to tell me that in your time, we have the _Borg _on our ship!"

Chakotay, drat him, looked more amused than concerned. "Only two. A young woman and a teenage boy, both severed from the Collective and completely loyal to the crew. You can blame yourself as much as the Captain, since in my time, you and Seven are pretty close."

Something about the Commander's smile intrigued the Doctor; he had never been "close" to anyone, with the exception of his young friend Kes and the beautiful Denara.

"How close?" he asked.

"I don't know, Doctor," with a shrug. "I'm not exactly in your confidence. All I know is that you give her social lessons, to help her adjust to individuality. And the two of you make excellent singing partners."

"Now that's ridiculous," scoffed the Doctor. "I wasn't programmed to sing. I'm a doctor, not a diva. And if anyone on this ship is qualified to give social lessons, well … I'm hardly the best candidate."

Not according to Paris, Torres and Kim, anyway. Their jokes at his expense continued to rankle, even though Kes told him his bedside manner was improving splendidly. He couldn't very well see himself in the role Chakotay described.

"You'd be surprised how much we change," said the Commander. "You included. Now, much as I'd like to stay and chat, I still have a temporal anomaly to fix. Take care, Doctor. See you in the future – I hope."

He nodded goodbye and turned away; just before he reached the doors, the Doctor scurried after him. His curiosity wouldn't let him rest.

"Commander, wait!"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"What does she look like? Seven of Nine?"

The faintest hint of exasperation showed in the upward motion of Chakotay's eyes.

"She's a white Human. Tall, blonde and stunningly beautiful. Are you satisfied, Doctor?"

"Now, really, Commander, I don't believe this is a joking matter!" he called plaintively through the closing doors.

A Borg woman, a valued crewmember, who relied on _him_ to help her become an individual. A duet partner. A tall, blonde and stunningly beautiful creature who was "close" to him.

If it wasn't a joke, it was certainly too good to be true.

=/\=

At a later point in his mission, Chakotay watched the drone Seven of Nine with barely concealed distaste. It was not so much the cybernetic armor, bald head, missing eye and pallid skin as the way she talked.

"If I were to assimilate you and the Captain into a small Borg Collective," Seven said, "You could work together much more efficiently."

He could sense Kathryn's revulsion as she stood next to him and sent her a calming look. _We need her. Relax._

"Sorry," said Kathryn, her Indiana drawl coming through with the irony in her voice. "I prefer my own plan, thanks."

Chakotay quite agreed. Watching the two women, it was hard to believe they were best friends in his time. Hard to believe this was the same Seven who would show respect at John Kelly's funeral; care for Naomi and the Borg children as if they were her own; kiss the Doctor in public and defend him like a lioness during the Jetal tragedy.

He remembered the Doctor's past self, sniping about being underappreciated and 'imprisoned' in Sickbay. He'd forgotten how annoying their EMH used to be before Seven came along to put him in his place. Likewise, without the Doctor's long hours with her in the holodeck, the ex-Borg would never have warmed and softened to the degree she had. He remembered them in his own timeframe: standing together in a corner on social occasions, no doubt making wry scientific observations about the rest of the crew. Two more reasons, then, in his long list of urgent reasons to get _Voyager_ back into one timeframe: their lovably eccentric cyber-pair, intolerable without each other.


	11. Lineage

_11. Lineage_

The doors to the Astrometrics lab slid shut on an uncharacteristically quiet Lieutenant Paris, carrying the data padds which were so riddled with errors that a former Borg could spot them at first glance. Seven and Icheb continued working; the young man could see that his foster-mother was trying to look as if nothing was the matter, but her hands were unsteady on the monitor board and her lips were drawn tightly together, as if locking something in. He waited for her to speak, but even her silence was tense.

"Seven," he finally said, "Please tell me what's wrong."

She swung around, looking so icily forbidding it almost frightened him, even though he knew he could not be the cause.

"Torres," was all she said.

Icheb felt a queasy sensation somewhere in his stomach. Ever since that absurd misunderstanding a month ago (how could he have believed that beautiful, passionate, thirty-two-year-old, _married_ Lieutenant Torres could ever love him?) he had barely been able to look their Chief Engineer in the face without blushing.

"You believe she reconfigured the Doctor's program?" he surmised.

"She is the only individual on board with both motive and ability," said Seven, tapping the touchscreen keys with more force than necssary. "She manipulated him from selfish motives. We ought to inform the captain."

Icheb was miserable on several accounts. Firstly, because B'Elanna was unhappy and he couldn't do a thing to help. Secondly, she had behaved with less than perfect honor and integrity, leaving her image painfully tarnished in his mind. Thirdly, he knew that by showing Mr. Paris the errors on the Doctor's padd, he had exposed B'Elanna to a serious argument with her husband. And fourthly, he still felt the need to defend her … even if it meant contradicting both Seven's conscience and his own.

"How do you know her motives are selfish?" he argued. "She is only acting out of concern for her child."

"By altering its DNA and curtailing its individuality."

"Seven – " He moved around to her other side, hoping to catch her eye. "The Lieutenant is a hybrid, like we are. The entire crew knows how conflicted she is about her double heritage. If _you_ had a child – "

"Impossible," she interrupted grimly, referring to certain biological obstacles which could not be removed without damaging some vital Borg implants.

"But if you did, would you want it to be part Borg?"

Seven paused for a long moment before answering, her face unreadable. Icheb was just about to apologize, remembering that she _had_ once created and lost a Borg son before him, when her answer cut him off.

"You comparison is inapplicable," she finally answered. "Borg nanoprobes are artificial in origin. We were assimilated against our will."

"Lieutenant Torres did not ask to be born half-Klingon."

Seven sighed faintly and looked down at her hands, one human, one Borg-enhanced.

"I have been charged with the care of part-Borg children," she said quietly. "One … Mezoti … Azan … Rebi … and yourself. Beyond restoring your basic individuality, I have never wished you to be different from what you are now … I would never attempt to deny our past as if it had never existed."

She reached towards him and, in a rare gesture of affection, tentatively traced the ocular implant above his eyebrow.

"I know," said Icheb, following a rare impulse to smile at his foster-mother. They both believed in struggling to balance the best of both worlds – Borg efficiency, individual empathy – without denying one or the other.

"_That_," Seven continued, with a hint of returning anger, "Is what Torres is attempting – without any consideration for the wishes of her child's father or the autonomy of the Doctor. I am beginning to wonder if my first impression of her was correct," she added darkly, referring to her first years on board when – according to the Doctor – Seven and Torres had 'fought like wildcats' every day in Engineering. Icheb had never known them as anything but respectful colleagues, which was why it worried him to see them so much at odds.

Much to his relief, however, she caught herself again, toning down her voice and manner to something more resigned than resentful.

"Your facial expression reminds me of the Doctor," she said, with another small sigh.

"It does?"

"Yes. You appear concerned … If he were here now, he would tell me I know better than to hold a grudge, and he would be correct."

He could imagine it: the EMH's kind brown eyes opening wide, his hands gesturing as he called up every rhetorical tactic in his program. Icheb's two closest mentors had been slightly distant with each other lately, ever since Iden and the photonic rebels.

"Lieutenant Torres and the Doctor depend on each other," he reflected aloud. "The Chief Engineer and the holographic ship's physician. When he beamed her over to Iden's ship, she forgave him. And he's been so happy about the pregnancy … I am certain he will forgive her."

_And so should you,_ he thought; only the deepest respect prevented him from saying it out loud, but his face might have said it anyway.

He watched over Seven's shoulder as she accessed the Doctor's program on her monitor. _Offline,_ they read. _Program restored to original parameters._

=/\=

The very next day, during her physical, Seven found out that Icheb's prediction had come true. The Doctor, whom she had half expected to find brooding in his office again, greeted her with his usual smile and scanned her in his inimitable way, turning every movement of his tricorder into a gesture of friendly affection.

"I have such exciting news, Seven," he said. "You'll never guess."

"Therefore you had better save us time and relate it."

"Whom do you suppose the Parises … or is it Paris-Torreses? … anyway, whom do you think our expecting parents have named as godfather to the baby?"

"Who is it?"

The Doctor shut his tricorder with a triumphant snap and spread his arms wide. "Yours truly!"

Seven, being less of an optimist than her old friend, saw trouble ahead. If he were ever called upon to assume custody of the baby while back in the Alpha Quadrant, they would have to go to court just to prove him fit to be a guardian. However, knowing the Doctor, he would probably relish the chance to argue over holographic rights as loudly and publicly as he could. And besides, Seven recognized Lieutenant Torres' intentions behind the gesture: it was her way of making amends.

Seven knew – possibly more than anyone on _Voyager_ – how much the Doctor still missed his life on the time-displaced world, including his infant son Jason. She had seen the loving way he treated Gemma, the Borg baby adopted by two crewmembers, now growing into a lively, bright-eyed toddler; his patience and kindness with Naomi, Icheb and the other Borg children. She knew he would be the best godfather he could possibly be.

Now, what was that human formula? Yes, she remembered -

"Congratulations, Doctor." And she meant it.


	12. Repentance

_12. Repentance_

"Please tell me you haven't been standing there all night."

The gentle reproach of that voice made Seven turn around from her console in Astrometrics. She blinked her bleary eyes until the blurred, green-and-black outline in front of her resolved into the figure of the Doctor.

"To do so would be a falsehood," she answered, surprised herself by the rusty croak of her own voice.

"I suspected as much. Icheb sent me to check on you. What in Cochrane's name have you been doing to yourself?"

"I have been running the warp core analysis for Lieutenant Torres. I completed it in twenty-two hours."

"When it would take three days for anybody else." He stepped forward, scanned her with his tricorder, and shook his head in exasperation at the results. "You'd think, when the prince of workaholic cadets himself starts to worry – oh … "

Looking over her shoulder at the star chart on the screen, he saw something which cut all his criticisms short. It was the constellations Iko had described in such loving detail: Paedos the Warrior and the Beast he pursued, Ornalla the Mother and her sixteen celestial daughters.

"They took him away, didn't they?" asked the Doctor, his melodic voice turning softer than ever in sympathy. "I'm sorry."

Seven had nothing left to say. She had argued herself hoarse about it already – with Marshal Yedick, with the victim's family, with the Captain. Nothing she said had managed to convince them that Iko was anything but a monster.

She glanced at the Doctor, standing next to her with silent compassion radiating from every photon in his body.

"I have come to agree with you," she said, "Concerning execution as a criminal penalty. At least … in this case. I cannot speak for others."

When the Nygean and Benkaran prisoners (all murderers, all bound for execution) had first come aboard after the destruction of their vessel, it had led to one of their debates. She had pointed out that it was by far the more efficient (and economical) method of dealing with dangerous individuals, while he had insisted that killing was wrong, whether sanctioned by the government or not. _An eye for an eye? That's not justice, that's revenge. And what about rehabilitation? Given the chance, some of those men might become productive members of society one day_.

A small, fleeting part of her couldn't help but notice that it was a debate just like those of their early friendship. Before the holographic rebellion, before the shadow of constraint between them. Times like that were growing scarce, and she missed them more than she could say.

She also missed Iko. She grieved for him as if for a close friend, though they'd known each other barely a week. Yes, he had been a murderer and a sociopath before her nanoprobes had inadvertently rewired his brain. But after that, he had truly changed. Seven remembered him, standing tall in his gray-and-orange prison uniform, explaining to his victim's wife and children that all he wanted was the chance to atone for his crimes and start his life anew. A chance which they – understandably enough – had denied.

"_Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom,_" the Doctor murmured.

"Explain?"

"Oh, just a New Testament story I used in one of my sermons."

Her internal database supplied her with the context of the quote; according to the Gospel of Luke, it had been spoken by a convicted criminal dying on the cross next to Jesus of Nazareth, a Human spiritual leader martyred 2,300 years ago for his controversial beliefs. Jesus had replied, _Truly I tell you: today you shall be with me in paradise_. Meaning that it was never too late to redeem your life.

This religious streak in the Doctor's programming was unpredictable; one never knew when it might surface. She had never asked him just how much of Christian doctrine he really believed in, or if he saw himself as having a soul. As a Borg agnostic, she usually found religion irrelevant; however, when it brought her an instance of wisdom like this, timeless and lovely as an Omega molecule, she couldn't help but feel a little awed.

She remembered Iko pointing out the stars to her, his craggy face alight with wonder. Touching her shoulder as he said his last farewell in his slow, rough voice. _You were the first person who wasn't afraid to look me in the eye._ She remembered his when she saw him last, serene and fearless. She did not for a moment believe that his soul would migrate into Heaven, or whatever afterlife the Nygeans had. But she knew faith when she saw it, and it assured her that her friend had died at peace. He had died knowing that, among all the grief and hatred he had left behind, at least one individual would think of him with kindness.

"I _will_ remember him," she vowed.

"So will I."

They stood together for a few more moments, without speaking. A few months ago, he might have touched her or even hugged her; today the Doctor held out his hand, looked down at it, drew it back, and gave her another scan instead.

"You're dehydrated, your blood sugar's too low, and your blood circulation and nanoprobe activity are at an unacceptable level," he said gruffly. "If I don't find you regenerating within twenty minutes, I'll get the Captain to relieve you of duty. Is that clear?"

"Affirmative, Doctor."

"Goodnight, my ... goodnight, Seven." And he was gone.


	13. Prophecy

_13. Prophecy_

(Author's Note: The lyrics to "Morning Has Broken", made famous by Cat Stevens, were originally written by Eleanor Farjeon.)

The ship was very quiet. Two hundred and four Klingon cult followers had just beamed off the ship to settle on their new colony, in the belief that it was the promised land to which their Savior, otherwise known as the unborn Paris-Torres baby, had led them. They had left behind destroyed furniture, injuries resulting from several mess hall brawls, a bewildred pair of parents-to-be and, strangely enough, one blissfully battered Talaxian morale officer.

"Not a day too soon," said the Doctor, putting his feet up on the desk with a sigh of relief.

"I agree," said Seven. She had spent the entire week on a personal red alert, waiting for one of those violent individuals to take offense at her Borg implants. She could probably handle herself in a _bat'leth_ duel when forced, but she was thankful enough not to have that theory put to the test.

"Finally my auditory subroutines can get some rest. Many of my Klingon patients seemed to believe that the more they shouted, the more I'd listen." He rubbed his holographic ear and grimaced.

"Yes … Lieutenant Torres appears quite serene by comparison."

The mention of Torres made him sigh again; he took out a data padd from one of the drawers in his desk and read it, smiling wistfully and shaking his head.

"Speaking of our heroine of the hour … I don't suppose she'll want this now. You see, I had the baby's christening ceremony all planned out. Or should I say the _Kuvah'magh_'s?"

"Has she told you as much?"

"Not yet … but really, it just doesn't seem appropriate. If anything, they'll probably have a Klingon naming ritual. Not that I'm against the idea, but … a christening would be so much more _pleasant_, don't you think? Besides, I _am_ the baby's godfather."

"You should ask the Lieutenants before anticipating their wishes," Seven pointed out. "Lieutenant Paris' ancestors were Irish Catholics. Or perhaps, since neither of them are overtly pious, there will be no ritual of any description."

"Hmm … you're probably right. Pity, though." He handed her the padd. "This is one of the songs I'd chosen. It's at least three hundred years old. Can't you just see it – the entire crew singing together to welcome a single newborn soul?"

Seven read the sheet music, finding that the simple melody and lyrics appealed to her at an irrational level she could not quite explain. Perhaps it was _déja vu_; she faintly remembered, or imagined, having heard this song before. Her parents, perhaps? She began humming experimentally under her breath, and looked up in embarrassed surprise when the Doctor joined her.

" -_ Like the first morning._

_Blackbird has spoken like the first bird._"

They sang together, their voices melting into harmony as always. He smiled, and he beauty of it nearly made her lose her place among the notes.

"_Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,_

_praise for the springing fresh from the word._

_Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven_

_like the first dewfall on the first grass._

_Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden:_

_sprung in completeness where His feet pass._

_Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning,_

_born of the one light Eden saw play._

_Praise with elation, praise every morning -_

_God's recreation of the new day."_

A slow clapping of hands from the door behind them made them both turn around. There stood Torres herself, visibly pregnant, her mouth twisted into a look of wry amusement.

"You two are so cute," she said, "Sometimes I'd like to hit you with a hyperspanner. How could you not see me standing right here?"

"Oh, excuse us!" The Doctor jumped up from his desk. "How may I help you, Lieutenant?"

"It's time to run your diagnostic, remember?" Torres folded her arms and gave him a sharp look, as if to say he really needed one. "Unless you're too busy crooning. The last time I heard a song that kitschy was ... I can't even remember."

"I told you so, Doctor," Seven remarked.

"Gloating, Seven, is bad form."

"Except when you do it?"

"Naturally."

"Told you what?" asked Torres, looking from one to the other with increasing puzzlement.

"Lieutenant, when the baby is born, would you prefer a Kahlessite or Christian naming ceremony?"

"What?" Torres blinked, shook her head distractedly, and flicked a strand of hair off her ridged forehead. "Oh, come on … diets, parenting classes and now this? I haven't even thought about it yet. It'll be at least four months until she's born!"

"Making your plans early would be the most efficient course of action," said Seven.

"Efficient, my - " Torres swallowed whatever angry retort she was about to make. "Okay … thanks, both of you. I appreciate your help. Tom and I will let you know what we decide, all right?" She gestured towards the sheet music for _Morning Has Broken_. "So you might wanna hang on to that. Just in case."

"It would clash dreadfully with _The Imperial Battle Hymn_, you know_,_" the Doctor warned, grinning as he stashed it inside his desk.

B'Elanna grinned back. "In my family, what else is new?"


	14. The Void

_14. The Void_

"Doctor to Seven of Nine."

"Proceed."

"Ahem … Seven, do you have time available after your shift?"

The Doctor straightened his jacket automatically, even knowing she couldn't see him, and listened closely. The emptiness of the Sickbay (where Fantome and his people had been making music only hours ago) made it easier to discern the sounds on the other end of the comm link: sizzling, chopping, a faint hum of laughter and conversation. She must be in the mess hall.

"That depends on the use you intend to make of my time, Doctor. Are you calling to schedule my next physical?"

"No … actually, I was wondering if you'd like to watch my _Phantom of the Opera_ holonovel. Just watch. No acting involved, unless of course you want to."

_The Phantom of the Opera_ – book, films, and especially the Andrew Lloyed Webber musical – was his latest fascination, which explained Fantome's name: the Doctor had drawn an immediate parallel between the shy alien fugitive who shared his love for music and the lonely, deformed composer from the story. Now that Fantome and the rest of his species had been left behind in the Void, the Doctor missed them, and felt the need for friendly companionship.

"Stop!" Seven's sharp command made him flinch, momentarily insulted.

"What do you – " he spluttered.

"Not you, Doctor. Mr. Neelix, _one _Nygean pepper will more than suffice!"

Seven's commbadge picked up Neelix's answer, faintly at first, then closer as if the Talaxian were moving close to her: "Seven, really, do you want to put the diners to sleep? Doctor, if that's you, by all that's holy come and rescue me! She's a menace in the kitchen, I had no idea!"

Neelix's laughing protest was almost drowned out by the hiss of a pot boiling over

"As you can hear, I am _attempting_ to assist Mr. Neelix with the evening meal for the crew. Therefore, I will be unavailable for further social interaction tonight."

The Doctor suppressed a sigh as he picked up the padd where his holonovel was stored. It was clear, to him at least, that Seven was enjoying herself.

"Sorry, Mr. Neelix," he said with pronounced carelessness. "But your rescue will have to wait. Seven, I'm proud of you for taking up such a healthy, social pastime as the culinary arts. Keep it up. Doctor out."

He broke the link abruptly, without waiting for her answer, so he wouldn't inadvertently spill out what he really thought. Her cooking hobby _was_ good for her; it brought her into non-professional contact with her shipmates; it allowed her to live on a more balanced and healthy diet than those endless nutritional supplements; it even gave her the experiences of pure sensual pleasure which, as the Doctor firmly believed, made life worth living.

However, food was also one of the few areas of life he could not share with her.

He always felt left out during meals with organics, even though he talked and laughed as much as anyone. And he'd decompile himself before asking her to upload his program into her body again; the consequences of the last time were all too fresh in his mind. Therefore, he'd started avoiding her whenever she felt like cooking, first in a holographic kitchen, later in the real one. And since it seemed to fascinate her as much as the Phantom's story fascinated him, he couldn't even remember the last 'social interaction' he'd had with her.

He found himself humming _Learn To Be Lonely _as he started on a stack of medical reports, grimaced, and shook his head.

"Now that's ridiculous. Doctor to Icheb," slapping his badge again with a fierce determination not to give in to self-pity, "What are you doing tonight, Cadet?"

"Assisting Lieutenant Torres with a warp core analysis," came the young man's weary voice. "After all the damage we sustained in the Void, she wants to make certain that there are no lasting flaws in the system."

"Very sensible of her, I'm sure," the Doctor muttered. "You sound exhausted. When was the last time you ate?"

"Approximately twelve hundred hours."

"Then I strongly advise you to have some dinner before you continue crawling through the jefferies tubes, or whatever you've been doing. That guardian of yours is cooking up a storm tonight."

"Again?" Icheb's dubious tone made the Doctor smile. He guessed that, in his absence, Seven had used her foster-son as a taste tester for several failed early efforts.

"Don't worry. The senior staff gave her glowing reviews."

"A peculiar concept," Icheb commented. "Lieutenant, do I have your permission to leave? Thank you. Good night, Doctor … Icheb out."

The Doctor plumped himself down at his office desk and picked up the first padd on the stack of reports.

"Computer, play musical selection Sigma One, track twenty-seven: _Learn To Be Lonely_."


	15. Workforce

_15. Workforce_

Annika Hansen, efficiency monitor at a Quarran power plant, woke up in a very clean room with gray walls, a great deal of metal instruments and a strong smell of disinfectant. She could see vertical orange light strips out of the corner of her eye, as well as a curved transparent wall separating a small office space from the larger room. A stranger was bending over her, a balding, middle-aged Human male with a wide mouth and bright hazel eyes. He wore black pants, a black jacket with green shoulders, a gray turtleneck sweater; and some pins on his collar; the combination suggested that he belonged to some form of military organization.

"Hello, Seven," said the stranger, with a smile. "I see you're awake."

She sat up, then collapsed onto the bed. Her head throbbed, she felt as weak as an overcooked Norwalan noodle.

"Seven … that is what Mr. Tuvok called me. Where am I … and where is Icheb?"

Icheb, an eighteen-year-old Brunali, was her friend and roommate, the only person in the world left to care for her after her parents' murder. Tuvok was her colleague, a dark-skinned Vulcan with an annoying habit of analyzing jokes, and a fear of injections. He had unsettled her badly a few days ago by grabbing her face, calling her 'Seven of Nine', and shouting out that neither of them belonged on Quarra. Investigating his claims, she had helped to uncover a planetwide medical conspiracy: what their superiors called Dysphoria Syndrome was really just their true memories, surfacing from underneath an entire lifetime fabricated to make them happy workers. She had been trying to decide how to break the news to her young comrade, whom she had always protected; the last thing she had wanted was to upset his cherished routine and make his quiet, contented life out to be a lie. Until this stranger and his people had taken her choice away and kidnapped her, as they had B'Elanna Torres.

"Yes," said the stranger eagerly. "Seven of Nine. You're on the starship _Voyager._ Icheb is quite safe; you'll be able to see him soon."

_Voyager_ …

"The ship whose crewmembers abducted – or reclaimed – B'Elanna Torres."

"Exactly. And it's _your_ ship, Seven. Look around. Doesn't anything look familiar?" The stranger flung out his arms, indicating the entire space.

_He_ did. He was the man she dreamed about at night sometimes, the one who sang duets with her and danced with her by firelight. How many times had she opened her eyes, irrationally expecting him to be sitting by her bedside exactly as he had just now? Which of course was ridiculous. She had never even confided those dreams to Icheb; she could hardly admit as much to a total stranger.

"No … "

He looked a little hurt, but that look disappeared so quickly, she must have imagined it. "You do realize that your memories were erased by Dr. Kaden," he said briskly. "The Captain – that's Ms. Janeway to you – told me about how you helped with the investigation."

"Yes."

"Well, then you ought to know that in your particular case, the procedure might have caused you serious damage … do you have any idea where you and your, ah, friend Mr. Icheb got those metal implants on your body?"

"Gang markings," she answered automatically. "We were raised on Earth, an economically and socially unstable planet, as you should know. My parents were murdered; his abandoned him. He is Brunali and I am Human, but on the streets it made little difference. We share a violent past. Emigrating to Quarra gave us a much desired chance of establishing ourselves as productive members of society – _what_ are you doing?"

The stranger was holding a hand to his forehead and shaking his head over and over, frowning darkly.

"There's so much wrong with that story," he muttered, "I don't even know where to start … First of all, I've never been to Earth. I'm an Emergency Medical Hologram."

A hologram … of course. The man from her dreams had never been quite ordinary; he had flickered in and out of existence like a sunbeam when you open and close the blinds. But he was real, as real as she was; she'd never doubted that.

"Doctor …" The word slipped out of her mouth almost unconsciously. "They call you the Doctor."

"Ah, you remember? Well, of course you would … I'm afraid you and Icheb have the misfortune of being some of my most frequent patients. Because you were never in a gang."

"Then what were we?"

She had that uneasy flashback again; something about the grim look on his face as he mentioned her being a frequent patient. He had looked at her that way often, and from just this perspective, sitting by her bed in Sickbay … He activated his tricorder, with its buzzing sound and flashing red light. How often had she seen that little device? She had stood still for it, flinched away from it, held it in her own hand … her metal hand.

She gasped out loud as a torrent of memories flooded through her brain, most of them nightmarish, all of them bordered with the same cold silvery metal.

A black surgical dome shutting her in. Someone's nose breaking against her fist. A jungle at night. An alien corpse in cybernetic armor. Three angry voices shouting at her. Two gangly teenagers, three children and a dying newborn baby. A blond Human couple on the bridge of a starship, watching an enormous cube on their viewscreen. The same people screaming as they were dragged away. A piercing pain at the side of her neck.

"You were Borg," said the Doctor, "Borg who have not regenerated in eight days, by the way. Your implants were in a deplorable state when we found you; clumsily maintained, like a shuttle held together with duct tape. Damn that Kaden – a malpractice suit's too good for him," he snarled as an aside. "The rest of the crew is already cured and going about their business, including Icheb – he's like you, in case you were asking, but since he's missing a cortical node – long story – he's adapted better. You, my dear, will need to stay here for at least four days, and regenerate in your alcove for another two."

The tricorder. Keep looking at the tricorder. It was the only thing keeping her together, just as it must have all those times before. The tricorder and his voice, his strange, familiar, beautiful voice.

"You gave this to me," he said softly, perhaps trying to distract her as he noted the direction her eyes were taking. "On stardate 52647 … almost two years ago now. You enhanced its scanning resolution by thirty percent."

"Were you and I … closely acquainted, then?" she said, hazarding a guess.

The Doctor was smiling wistfully at the tricorder, as if it carried a chain of significant memories for him as well.

"We worked … we _do_ work together rather closely," he said. "When you first arrived on _Voyager_ as a disconnected Borg drone, I helped you integrate with the crew. 'Social lessons', we called it. Later, you and I helped Icheb in the same way. We often collaborate on medical projects; your nanoprobes especially have come in extremely useful on several occasions … "

"Yes, but … how well do we know each other in a personal capacity?"

Those dreams flashed across her memory again. She had worn a purple silk dress in them, and he had worn a green tweed jacket. He had spun her around … there was a joke behind that image, but she couldn't quite recall. There was a song, a love song, something about sunshine …

"Oh, dear," said the Doctor, edging away from her bed. "That's … a complicated question.."

"Were we … lovers?" she asked.

The memories seemed to suggest that, although several crucial details were missing. She would not have been surprised if the answer were yes. In fact, she even hoped for it … her dreams had carried her through many a dull, lonely moment on Quarra. It was not every day one's dream came true.

The Doctor, however, blushed (with uncanny authenticity – who had programmed him for that?), took another step away and held up his hands, looking pained.

"O-of course not … I was your mentor, remember? _And_ your physician. It would be unethical."

"But … I remember us," she protested, stung by the implication that making love to her was as wrong as that. "We used to dance together … Computer, search for the following lyrics in the musical database: _You are my sunshine_."

"One match found," replied the computer voice.

"Play it," Seven ordered.

The Doctor turned away, his shoulders slumped, as the incongruously cheerful twanging of a stringed instrument filled the air. With a jolt of familiarity, Seven recognized her own voice singing, as coolly as the computer voice and with perfect pitch.

"_The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping,  
I dreamed I held you in my arms."_

The next voice was the Doctor's, an over-the-top tremolo. They must have recorded it together. She remembered him, smiling radiantly, air-conducting as he sang. _  
"When I awoke, dear … I was mistaken …  
and I hung … my head … and cri-i-ied!"_

The recorded voices came together for the chorus, neither too cold nor too dramatic; in fact they sounded happy, making a chilling contrast to the two people listening.

"_You are my __sunshine, my only sunshine.  
You make me happy when skies are grey.  
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.  
Please don't take my sunshine away."_

She remembered it now, every talk, every song, every joke, every argument. She remembered the dance (a very kind and mentorly social lesson after she'd landed another partner in Sickbay) and the kiss (preceded by a very embarrassing incident involving the Doctor's cognitive projection subroutines). They had saved each other's lives, believed in each other when nobody else would. They also hadn't interacted outside of Sickbay for two months before Quarra.

The best of times and the worst of times.

"_I'll always love you and make you happy  
i__f you will only say the same,  
but if you leave me to love another,  
you'll regret it all someday."_

_Seven, you'__ve got to hang on! … Would you reprogram me as well, Captain? I am not unlike the Doctor … You are lost and gone forever / Dreadful sorry, Clementine … I shall always consider myself your loyal fan … That kiss was a platonic gesture, do not expect me to pose for you … Mr. Axum's a lucky man … How's my favorite Borg today? … You merely crave attention, applause, 'fan mail' … A drone's obsession with efficiency – you'd make an excellent hologram! … There are no compatible mates for me aboard this vessel … Friends, agreed._

"_You are my __sunshine, my only sunshine.  
You make me happy when skies are grey.  
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.  
Please don't take my sunshine away."_

"Computer, end music!" ordered Seven. The ragged sound of her voice was the first clue that she'd been crying; touching her face with her non-enhanced left hand, she found it wet with tears.

"I apologize, Doctor," she sobbed. "My ocular implant … must be malfunctioning … "

The Doctor handed her a tissue, politely ignoring her as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. He didn't even call her out on that tired excuse as he might have done once; he seemed to regard her as a stranger, or a fragile bit of machinery liable to break.

"Take it easy, Seven," he said. "You're trying to pack a lifetime of memories into three minutes, aren't you? Overachiever." A tiny spark lit his eyes, almost like before. "Would you like me to replicate you something to eat?"

"A strawberry tart … please." Emotional outbursts always left her feeling like the six-year-old girl she had been, ready to resort to her favorite comfort foods. "And plomeek soup."

"Coming right up."

"And I wish to see Icheb."

"Your commbadge is right over there."

The Doctor gestured to her nightstand. She picked it up and pressed it with one finger.

"Seven of Nine to Icheb."

"Seven!" the young man exclaimed, a world of concern and affection in his voice. "How are you?"

"Damaged … but reparable." In several senses. "I will be fully functional in about six days. How are_ you_?"

"Fine, except that I've missed you … and so did the Doctor. He barely left your bedside. I've never seen him like that with another patient."

Seven glanced at the Doctor, whose back was to her as he gave orders to the replicator at the other end of the room.

"No doubt I present a unique medical challenge," she said, aiming for her usual level tone and coming out only slightly unsteady. "Icheb … recovering from this memory implantation is proving difficult. I would … appreciate … a visit. As soon as it is convenient for you."

_My world has fallen apart and been repaired with fractures. I need to see you, my son, to assure myself that I have not lost you.._

Meanwhile, the Doctor picked up the tray which had formed inside the replicator and carried it over to her. It contained a bowl of hot plomeek soup, a slice of baguette, a small pot of herbal tea and a small strawberry tart. She nodded her thanks.

"I will come right away," said Icheb. "Computer, pause turbolift – destination, sickbay. Icheb out."

The Doctor fluffed her pillow, helped her sit up, and positioned the tray for programmed efficiency.

"I know you prefer the traditional recipe," he said, gesturing to the purple soup made from beetroot-like Vulcan vegetables. "Not that infamous brew of Mr. Neelix's invention. And no whipped cream … you don't like things too sweet, do you?"

Whatever happened to the man who had told her indulgences made life worth living?

"You are correct. Thank you, Doctor."


	16. Human Error

_16. Human Error_

Seven of Nine's Personal Log

Stardate 54632.1

I am not in the habit of recording ruminations on my emotional state – neither a productive nor a pleasant exercise. Ever since the Doctor created this file for me in _Voyager_'s computer system, I have used it as a duty schedule only. However, as of two days ago, I find myself in dire need of a confidante, and the computer, having no sentience, will neither laugh nor judge me.

I have made an error. I have violated Starfleet regulations, lied to Captain Janeway, nearly been responsible for _Voyager_'s destruction, lost my own self-respect and possibly the Doctor's friendship. The only way I can repair the damage is to be as efficient and conscientious a crewmember as I possibly can, and to ensure that the events of the past two days are never repeated.

It began, I suppose, with Unimatrix Zero and my first romantic partner, Axum. In the past seven months since we were separated, I have often missed … not so much his presence as an individual, but the sensations he evoked. I miss being – desired, and desiring someone in return. Perhaps if the Doctor had shown any interest in me, or if our friendship at least had remained close, I would not have felt this emptiness in my life, or chosen this method to fill it.

I decided to follow the Captain's example and acquire a holographic lover. Since none of the male Fair Haven characters were to my liking, and I lack the creativity to design one, I chose an existing crewman as a template: Commander Chakotay. He is a fine officer, more similar to me in temperament than most of the senior crew, and not unattractive. He has given me valuable advice in the past, regarding the value of studying history, the education of the Borg children, and my conflict with Marika, P'shan and Lansor. I have long since forgiven him for severing me from the Collective via his neural link, and I appreciate his efforts to overcome his mistrust of my Borg nature and, in his words, "make me feel like part of the team". He seemed like an appropriate choice.

I remembered the Doctor's instructions, from the time he tried to help me find a mate two years ago. They worked even better than I had anticipated.

Lesson 1: First Contact/Lesson 2: Encounter In A Public Place – a simulation of the Paris-Torres baby shower. (I neglected to attend the real one.)

3: Getting To Know You – I familiarized myself with his culture, and thus was able to recognize a Native American dreamcatcher when Chakotay presented one to me.

5: Beguiling Banter – We made each other smile. Several times.

8: Dress For Success – I altered the program to erase my Borg implants and project different clothes on my body. He particularly admired the red silk dress.

The simulations felt like reliving the best parts of my dating social lessons with the Doctor two years ago … if the Doctor were a handsome Native American and passionately attracted to me. Once, while listening to me play the piano, he even stopped my metronome and told me to 'put a little more heart into it', just as the Doctor did the first time we sang "You Are My Sunshine". I followed my Chakotay's advice, and my playing did improve, to his delight and my satisfaction. However, I did not sing for him.

I found myself unable to face the Commander without remembering how I kissed the hologram. My heart rate and respiration began to increase in his presence; I was distracted from my work; in short, I displayed all the symptoms of romantic infatuation. It has not stopped yet.

As Lieutenant Paris would say, my private idyll was 'too good to be true'. Absorbed by Chakotay and the piano, I neglected my station at Astrometrics and nearly failed to provide the coordinates of a detonating subspace warhead. It caused heavy damage to the ship, including a shutdown of the warp core. When Captain Janeway called me to her ready-room for a well deserved reproach, I told her my holodeck hours had been spent designing a new gravimetric array. (What will I tell her when she asks to see it?) Then I went back to "end my relationship" in person, and while I argued with the Chakotay hologram, my sexual frustration and anxiety nearly caused my cortical node to fail.

The Doctor told me I had inadvertently triggered a Borg failsafe device, designed to shut down my higher brain functions in the event of certain "emotional stimulation". At first, I wondered why this device had remained dormant through all the time I spent with Axum (and the Doctor himself), but then I remembered that since Unimatrix Zero existed in the Collective's subconscious, it did not affect our physical bodies. Also, the cortical node I posess was once Icheb's – it stands to reason that, since he was assimilated more recently than I was, Borg technology would have progressed.

I am so very grateful that Icheb has never fallen in love – and that when he does, without his cortical node he will be as safe as anyone else.

The Doctor offered to remove the failsafe, but I refused. Not because of the multiple surgeries involved (I am accustomed to that), but because I have decided that the last thing I need, at this point, is to be entangled in a love affair, holographic or otherwise. It makes me inefficient, illogical and weak … all the aspects of humanity I used to despise most. It has also made me thoroughly miserable.

"I wasn't aware you _had_ a personal life," the Doctor told me.

What does he consider our duets, our piano lessons, our photographic excursions in the holodeck and on shore leave, and our many conversations and debates, if not personal?

And he was _proud_ of me. I did not expect him to be jealous of the Chakotay hologram, but the detached pride of a former instructor is somehow even worse.

Regarding teachers and students …my recent behavior to Icheb has been unnecessarily harsh. Perhaps an apology is in order.

Computer, seal this entry with Borg encryption code Epsilon Mu Eta.

End log.

Chief Medical Officer's Personal Log

Stardate 54632.1

I suppose I must have known, somewhere in the back of my cortical processor, that this day was coming. I just didn't expect it to be like _this_.

I will never forget the sight of her lying there, crumpled up on the cold holodeck floor, with her hair undone and sparks running along her ocular implant. Until I scanned her, for a moment I really thought I'd lost her … and perhaps I have, after all.

Two years ago, when Seven broke off our dating project, she told me there were no compatible mates for her aboard this vessel. She also told me that if she ever found one, she would seek my guidance. Except she hasn't – sought my guidance, I mean. How long has she been in love with Commander Chakotay? How could I not have known?

Commander _Chakotay_? She barely knows the man. He's the one who severed her from the Collective – could that be it? A sort of residual mind link? – and he took a whole year to admit she wasn't a scorpion. After she'd saved all our lives, no less. She says he has "many admirable qualities" – which I suppose he does, in a rugged warrior-poet sort of way – but she never seemed to notice them before. And it's no wonder she resorted to the holodeck … in my recollection, the Commander has never looked at her twice. Rumor has it he's still carrying a torch for the Captain.

I told Seven I was proud of her. What else could I say? I _am_ proud that, if only for a moment, she acknowledged that she has hopes and dreams and passions like the human woman she is.

Two years, even two months ago, she might have confided in me sooner. But that was before my idiotic defection to Iden's ship … before my selfish behavior that time she uploaded me into her implants … before Quarra. Those bastards and their memory implantations have left the entire crew disoriented, including Seven – and when Seven gets disoriented, her first instinct is always to cling to the Collective.

Now look at her … trapped not so much by the failsafe device as by her own fears. She's put up a Borg façade so strong even I can't break through. She said removing the device … enabling her to feel passion without her brain funtions shutting down … would make her weak and inefficient. It was her first month all over again. God knows I tried. I begged her to let me proceed with the surgery, in the name of our friendship. She cut me off by initiating her regeneration cycle. When did she learn to make 'good night' sound like a slap?

Computer, pause recording.

Computer, resume. Captain Janeway just came in to ask me about Seven, looking positively flinty-eyed. Ostensibly she's annoyed by Seven's mistake in Astrometrics, but her real problem, as I suspect, is the fib Seven told. Something about a new gravimetric array, even though Icheb's science project from last year is still working perfectly. I kept quiet, of course – wild targs couldn't have dragged it out of me, even if I weren't programmed for confidentiality. Technically, what Seven did _was_ against ship's regulations, but I can't bring myself to disapprove as strongly as the Captain does. For one thing, nobody was hurt and the Commander will never find out; for another, I've been down that road myself and gone a few steps further.

Four years ago, shortly before Seven came aboard, I created a wife and two children on the holodeck. Original characters, not copies (although I did program Charlene with more than a few traits of Kes and Denara). I stopped running that program for various reasons … B'Elanna's editing, for one, which made the plot far too realistic for my peace of mind. I never told Seven. No doubt if I tried to bring up the subject now, she'd march away in the opposite direction. When I ventured to comment on her good taste in decorating, that's exactly what she did.

I shouldn't have made that remark about her personal life. It came out sounding wrong … petty and mean-spirited. What I meant to say was, I wasn't aware she had a personal life _without me in it_ – then I realized that the only thing worse than sounding petty is sounding needy. I know we haven't been to the holodeck together for ages, but that always used to be her favorite way to unwind. (Not that my Borg lady would use that phrase.) An hour or so at the grand piano in Sandrine's, a modeling session with my camera, a roleplaying exercise, a long conversation on the beach in Fair Haven … anything, really, as long as we were together.

Without her, my own 'personal life' is reduced to fiction: operas, musicals, novels and one disaster of a manuscript. Whoever said a broken heart was inspirational?

On top of everything else, our problems are starting to affect Icheb. Yesterday, when I asked him to relieve Seven of duty and remind her to regenerate, he sighed and said: "Can't you tell her yourself?" Later that evening, since Seven's commbadge signal registered in Holodeck Two instead of her cargo bay, I commed Icheb again and he actually lost his temper: "She said to tell you she has research to complete. Doctor, I'm _tired_ of relaying messages between you! Whatever problems you're having, you should just talk them out directly like you always do."

Fortunately for him, he's never been in love.

I apologized and promised to try and keep him out of any future conflicts with Seven. Our boy, our 'Cadet' as I like to call him, has been the one bright spot in all of this. I feel particularly fond of him just now, thinking of the narrow escape he's had. If he hadn't given up that cortical node, it might have been _his_ brain in danger of shutting down. The last thing I want is to alienate him as well.

Computer, end log.


	17. Q2

_17. Q2_

The Doctor waited until Captain Janeway and Q Junior had left Sickbay to comm Seven with the news; he knew she would want privacy for this.

"Doctor to Seven of Nine … I need you to come to Sickbay. Icheb is injured."

She did not answer. A loud clatter sounded through the comm system, as if she had dropped something.

"Seven?"

"I am coming."

Seconds later, a sparkling blue silhouette became visible in the center of the room and assembled itself into Seven – a pale, wide-eyed Seven with a tool kit still in one hand and a thin, pencil-like phase compensator tucked behind one ear. She crossed the room in three enormous strides and was standing at Icheb's bedside before the Doctor could get a word in. She took one look at the boy's white, motionless face, and looked up again to meet the Doctor's eyes across the biobed.

"_Explain._"

"Q Junior was bored and took him for a joyride on the _Delta Flyer,_" said the Doctor bitterly. "They trespassed on Chokuzan space, provoked a law enforcement officer, and Icheb was shot in the ensuing fight. The weapon, whatever it was, is causing his cells to necrotize. I haven't the least idea of how to cure him," holding up his hand to stop Seven from asking what he knew she would ask. "At this rate, Q Junior is his only chance. The Captain's taking him back to beg the Chokuzan for help. If that doesn't work, I give him – " he swallowed. "Three days."

"Three days?" Her voice sounded calm, but her blue eyes burned like ice. "Until … "

He did not need to say it.

Seven's hand reached out to smooth the standard-issue blanket. Her eyelids lowered, hiding that desperate look from the Doctor as she focused on Icheb's face with fierce intensity. His eyes were drawn from her face back to her hand on the blanket … her Borg-enhanced hand.

"Unless … " he murmured.

"Yes?"

Blue eyes met hazel across the bed again. The Doctor reached across the bed and grabbed Seven's hand.

"Nanoprobes."

Color rushed back into her cheeks as her eyes lit up with hope and determination; in a moment, a different woman was standing there. She took back her hand, made a fist and ejected her assimilation tubules.

"Proceed."

And they did. They worked together with an efficiency second only to the Borg. The silence between them, broken only by terse exchanges of information, did not trouble them for once; it only united them in their singleness of purpose. Nanoprobe surgery had always been their common ground; Icheb was the person neither of them could bear to lose. This much was understood, and it was enough.

Whether it was their own exceptional ability, or a bit of help from Q the elder at a distance, they could never be certain; all they knew was that the moment Icheb's gray eyes finally blinked open, after coming so close to being shut forever, was one of the happiest and proudest moments of their lives.

"Seven … Doctor?" Icheb's eyes wandered unsteadily from one face to the other, then closed again as his thin face broke out into a smile of relief.

Seven astonished them both by taking Icheb's face between both hands and kissing him on the forehead, something she had never done before. She backed away, locked her hands behind her back, and tried so hard to look composed and dignified that it took all the Doctor's willpower not to laugh out loud. He copied Seven's posture, right down to the tilt of his chin, and delivered his best glare: CMO to misbehaving cadet. His mouth _would_ turn up into a smile, however, and one glance at Seven's sparkling eyes told him it was useless to pretend otherwise.

"You have some explaining to do, young man."


	18. Author, Author

_18. Author, Author_

_PHOTONS, BE FREE  
By the Emergency Medical Hologram (Mark 1) of the Federation Starship Voyager_

_Chapter 8 – In which our hero falls in love _

[Delete]

_In which our hero is rescued from decompilation by the most beautiful woman in the universe_

[Delete]

_In which the power of love leads a hologram and a Borg drone to discover humanity_

[Delete]

_In which photons and nanoprobes collide_

"Delete, delete, _delete!_ Damn it … " The Doctor slammed the button on his computer console so viciously that half the previous chapter disappeared, scowled at his screen as if it were deliberately at fault, and hit 'Undo'. Writing a holonovel was harder than it looked, but inserting Seven into his story was the hardest part of all, and he hadn't even started yet.

It had to be perfect. Her counterpart had to posess all the qualities which made the real Seven so unique. She had to be neither so perfect as to lose the players' sympathy, nor so flawed as to be unlikeable. She was the only character he _wanted_ to be likable; in a world of violence and hypocrisy, he wanted her to shine like a beacon of light.

Perhaps one day when it was finished, he would ask her to run the program and she would see herself as a heroine through his eyes. Maybe then, she would finally see how truly he admired and respected her; how deeply he regretted the distance between them and longed to make things right. If he could just catch exactly the right lighting, the right expressions, the right words …

Thinking of his distance from Seven reminded him horribly of the Chakotay hologram, which made him nearly knock his forehead against the screen for being such an idiot. Turning "Three of Eight" into the hero's love interest was about the worst idea he could have thought of. Seven would be horrified. He'd stand a much better chance of reaching her if he recreated their relationship as it had once been: loyal, supportive, and entirely platonic. She could still be that beacon of light, perhaps even better, being more impartial.

He accessed the crew manifest, called on Seven's file, and copied the computer's data on her physical parameters into the manuscript as he had done with his other characters. Then, as usual, he added a few tweaks. Auburn hair suited her very nicely, he thought; so did redesigning her implants into a sparkling necklace and bracelet. "Three of Eight" could use them as tools to help the hero escape, hacking into the computer system, disabling forcefields, or some other feat of brilliance. No damsel-in-distress roles for his heroine. He smiled.

_Chapter 8 - In which the Doctor is helped by his only ally_

"There. Nice title. Now if I can only get the story right ..."

=/\=

He never did show her the novel. At first, he told himself he would wait unti it was published. Later, when the criticism rained down on all sides like an ion storm, he decided he'd rather swallow plasma than let Seven see the objectionable work. A harsh word from her would have hurt him ten times more than the most outrageous parody Tom Paris could come up with. Besides, she'd been assigned to monitoring the comm system for all those family calls. She had no time to spare for irrelevant works of fiction.


	19. Friendship One

_19. Friendship One_

The moment Tom Paris saw the Doctor following him down the corridor, with the holocamera in his hands and a purposeful glint in his eyes, he knew what his holographic friend was after.

"Doc," he said, stopping short and rolling his eyes. "You can't be serious. There's nothing down there except ruins and toxic waste." Down there, meaning the planet where Tom, Joe Carey and Neelix were about to go retrieve an ancient probe from Earth's 21st century.

"Ruins have great artistic potential," the Doctor coaxed. "And as for the toxic waste, I've never seen that sort of lighting before. Please, Mr. Paris? Just a few snapshots for my collection?"

"Can't you get Seven to – "

The words came out of his mouth automatically, but two things silenced him – firstly, the fact that Seven was not part of this away mission, and secondly, the look on the Doctor's face. At the sound of Seven's name, his eager smile was simply wiped away.

"She's not coming," said the Doctor, his voice as suddenly subdued as the rest of him. "Remember?"

"Uh … right." Tom cleared his throat awkwardly.

Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones. He was the only person to whom the Doctor had confessed his feelings for their Borg lady; back then, almost three years ago, mentioning Seven had made the hologram light up like his own tricorder. He had lent her his camera for away missions, performed duets with her on special occasions, worked miracles with her nanoprobes … it had been almost impossible to think of one without the other. Now, apparently, a change had crept in – and not a change for the better.

_Man, I told you to make a move all those years ago,_ he almost said. _You waited too long._ Only his memory of their awful holonovel feud stopped him; after making such vicious fun of his feelings for Seven, he felt he had no right to broach the topic with the Doctor anymore.

"See ya," he said instead, giving the Doctor a friendly clap on the shoulder.

"Take care, Lieutenant."

=/\=

Several hours later, Tom walked into Sickbay holding a newborn baby, delivered in a cave underground and belonging to a species poisoned with radiation. The little fellow squeaked like a kitten; from what Tom knew about babies, surely they should be louder? He had promised the mother that her child would be taken care of by the best doctor in the quadrant (not that he'd tell the Doctor that).

As he entered, Seven and the Doctor looked up from their consoles, glanced at each other, and moved forward in one smooth coordinated motion: the Doctor to take the baby, Seven to extract more nanoprobes to perform the same procedure she'd used on their other patient. There was something beautiful about the gentle way the Doctor placed the baby in a bassinet, and how he and Seven bent their heads together and conferred in hushed voices about the best treatment.

_Whatever it was they had,_ thought Tom, with a glow of gratitude at the thought of his B'Elanna and their unborn daughter, _I guess it's not gone after all. At least … not yet._


	20. Natural Law

_19. Natural Law_

Commander Chakotay and the Doctor, though having served together for nearly seven years now, barely knew each other. The Doctor considered their First Officer a good man, but difficult to relate to, with his Native American animist religion and his fondness for boxing. They seldom spoke more than duty required – which was why, during his final checkup the day after his and Seven's return from Ledosia, Chakotay surprised the Doctor by saying: "Do you remember that virus? What was it … five years ago?"

"I remember a great many viruses, Commander." The Doctor shrugged. "Please specify."

Chakotay roamed around Sickbay, a faraway look on his face.

"Kath – Captain Janeway and I caught it and had to be quarantined on an M-class planet. Remember? We called it New Earth." He sighed. "A beautiful place. And to think we came so close to spending the rest of our lives there."

The Doctor smiled, wistful memories tucked away at the back of his memory database. "Oh, it was nothing, really. It was Ensign Kim's determination that made Tuvok turn the ship around. And Denara who developed the cure for you. All I did was administer it. But thank you for the appreciation, Commander. May I ask – what prompted this?"

Chakotay picked up a hypospray, turned it around in his big hands, then put it down again. "Hmm? Oh. Nothing. I was just thinking … five years is a long time."

"Four years and ten months, to be precise," said the Doctor. It was that long since he had last seen Denara's smile and heard her calling him by that dear, silly Vidiian name. He did not think about her as often as he used to, but every now and then, nostalgia still took him by surprise. Fond memories of his first love.

Chakotay smiled. "You sound like our Borg."

"Which one, Commander?"

It suddenly struck the Doctor just how unfamiliar Chakotay's smile looked on his round, tan, careworn face. When was the last time his cheeks had curved up like that? Over the years, Chakotay had gradually developed an almost Vulcan air of reserve. The Doctor wondered, for the first time, if the Commander was really content with his lot.

"Excuse me," said Chakotay ruefully, "I meant Seven. She's not exactly a Borg anymore, is she? Neither is Icheb. You've done wonders for those two."

"All in a day's work," said the Doctor. "Besides, I only charted the course. They were the ones who made the journey."

"But Seven _is_ remarkable, isn't she?" said Chakotay, his brown eyes brightening.

"Was there ever any doubt of that, Commander?"

"At ease, Doctor." Chakotay held up one hand placatingly. "We all know how protective you are about your student. I suppose any man she decided to date would have to come to you for permission."

The Doctor bit back several inflammatory remarks. "With all due respect, Commander, I am not her father, and I have not been her teacher for several months now. We are equals. Seven has never informed me of wanting to date anyone, but you can be sure if she did, she wouldn't need anybody's permission."

Yet even as he said that, a memory reared its ugly head. Seven lying prone on the cold holodeck floor, her hair undone, sparks shooting across her ocular implant. A holographic Chakotay vanishing with love and worry in his eyes.

Seven was attracted to Chakotay – enough to trigger her failsafe device. She found his 'qualities' admirable. Could it be that Chakotay actually felt the same way?

"But while we're on the subject, Commander … just what _are_ your intentions towards Seven?"

"Didn't you just tell me she doesn't need permission?" said Chakotay – and left.

The Doctor began muttering expletives as he picked up a report he had to finish. Surely not! What about the rumors surrounding Chakotay and the Captain? He was devoted to the woman, anyone could see that. Whenever Janeway was injured or ill, he inevitably hovered over her bed, held her hand and exchanged gentle banter to keep her from being bored. When she'd nearly died, he had been out of his mind with grief. Was it friendship, or something more? And whatever it was, had it managed to survive all the vagaries of the past years?

They had argued over Janeway's deal with the Borg. When Janeway had fallen prey to depression in the Void, Chakotay had been unable to coax her out of her quarters. During the _Equinox_ incident, she had relieved him of duty. Under Teero's influence, he had led a Maquis mutiny against her. What had happened to the laughing, whispering, inseparable command team the Doctor remembered?

Time, he thought. The same force that swept him further away from Denara, Kes, Marisa and Jason with every passing day. Time changed everything, even holograms.

Seven did not love him. That much was clear. It would be wrong to stand in the way of her finding happiness with another man. If Chakotay hurt her, of course, the Doctor might have to find a way to circumvent his programmed oath to do no harm.

But for now, there was nothing to do but watch and wait.


	21. Homestead

_21. Homestead_

It had been a week now since Neelix had left _Voyager_ to join the Talaxian colony, but if the crew had expected to lose him, they were thoroughly mistaken. Loyal soul that he was, he had established a comm link and spent three hours catching up with his former shipmates, especially Tuvok and the Wildmans. Seven's turn came last of all, and while Naomi and Samantha left Astrometrics, Seven glanced anxiously at the timer in one corner of the screen. She could not keep up the link for very much longer.

"Mr. Neelix, I … require advice. On a problem of a … personal nature."

Neelix fidged a little in his chair. "Ooh … er … really? Are you sure I'm the right person to speak to about this?"

"You _were_ our Morale Officer."

"Of course." His fingers drummed nervously against his yellow waistcoat. "But wouldn't you rather speak to the Captain? I thought you were close."

Seven tensed. "The Captain," she admitted, "Is part of the problem. If she knew what I am about to tell you, she would be ashamed of me … "

Neelix's eyes went round and he opened his mouth, about to make a polite protest. She cut him off.

"I created a simulation of one of the senior officers to by my holographic lover, in spite of Starfleet regulations forbidding it The program distracted me from my duties, so I deleted it, but now the same individual – the real one – has asked me out on a date. How should I proceed?"

Chakotay's smiling face was still in the back of her mind. She had never felt as close to him before as she did since Ledosia; seeing his kind and respectful demeanor towards the Ventu, as well as his protectiveness of her, had done something to her emotions that felt suspiciously like falling in love. If only her cortical node would remain functional … and if only she didn't keep seeing the Doctor's sorrowful eyes after their argument about the surgery. Their last argument.

Neelix's gray eyes went wider than ever … then crinkled into lines of laughter as he shook his head over and over again.

"Why, Seven of Nine," he chuckled. "You _are_ a romantic! I didn't know you had it in you. Who was it then? Did he – or she – bring you roses and play duets with you? Your hologram, I mean."

"_Mr. Neelix - "_ She glared, her hand inching toward the button that would terminate th link.

"Oy! Enough with the death glare, please, you're worse than Mr. Vulcan!" Neelix held up his hands in playful surrender, then settled them back on his lap with an expression as sober as Tuvok's own. "I'm sorry, Seven. I promise I won't laugh again. Now, what seems to be the problem?"

She hesitated. It all seemed a little too much to detail over one video conversation.

"You _are_ attracted to this someone, aren't you?" he probed.

"Yes … "

"And if you both feel the same way, why not just accept?"

Why not, indeed.

"Because I had … similar feelings … for someone else for approximately two years."

"Ooh. Hmm … " He tugged on his whiskers thoughtfully, hesitating several moments before answering. "I had no idea … you're quite the mystery, aren't you? Even after four years. You say you _had_ feelings for this other person. Don't you have them now?"

"I am … uncertain."

"And do you know what they think of you?"

She suppressed a sigh. "He considers me a valuable colleague, perhaps a friend … but never once has he shown the slightest sign of a romantic interest in me. In fact he has often encouraged me to show interest in other people."

Neelix grimaced and clucked his tongue in sympathy. "Ow. That must be difficult for you."

"It certainly is."

"If you really want my advice … "

"Yes?"

"I'd say, leave the past behind you and look to the future." He smiled and nodded like a kindly uncle, his hands linked comfortably across his stomach. "It sounds like you and your new interest, whoever that is, have a potential that's worth exploring. A one-sided relationship will only hurt you – take my word for it." His face darkened for a moment, perhaps thinking of Kes, but then he shook his head as if to wipe the frown away and smiled at her again.

"Thank you, Mr. Neelix. I will consider your advice."

"Anytime, Seven."

"I trust you will keep this confidential."

"Absolutely."

"Goodbye then … and will you contact us next week? At the same time?"

"You can tell me all about your date." He winked.

"Give my regards to Ms. Dexa and her son."

"I will. Over and out!" With a final wave, Neelix ended the transmission.

Seven watched the empty screen for one long moment, considering. His advice sounded as logical as advice about one's love life could possibly be, and Chakotay _was_ charming. She still had the Ventu blanket rolled up in a corner of her cargo bay, a souvenir of their time in the jungle.

"Seven to Chakotay?"

"Go ahead."

"I have reconsidered your offer," phrasing it neutrally, in case he was on the bridge with the others listening, "And I accept."

"I look forward to it," he said softly. "Tonight, Holodeck Two, nineteen hundred hours?"

She pushed all thoughts of tuxedoes, tricorders, musical scores, fan letters, last arguments and reproachful hazel eyes out of her mind.

"Acknowledged."


	22. Renaissance Man

_22. Renaissance Man_

It had almost become a tradition these last four years, the Doctor reflected bitterly. He would embarrass himself in some way, overstep the bounds of morality and/or good taste, and hole up in his Sickbay office until Seven coaxed him out. When Tincoo had publicly upstaged him with an 'improved' singing version of himself, Seven had restored his shattered confidence with a fan letter. After being reprogrammed to become her torturer on the _Equinox,_ she had granted him both forgiveness and a new encryption for his ethical subroutines. Even after he'd taken advantage of being downloaded into her body by indulging in cheesecake and synthehol, she had brought a tray of foie gras and wine in order to give him a vicarious eating experience. She was always there, always with just the right thing to say and do to lift him out of the doldrums and bring him back to his ebullient self. Except that this time, she was not.

_Of course not. What did you expect?_

In retrospect, like so many of the Doctor's grand gestures, it seemed ridiculous. To confess your love with your dying breath, only to have your program restored by Lieutenant Torres and flicker back into being with the entire senior staff staring at you, was an experience the Doctor wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. He couldn't bring himself to wish that he _had_ decompiled – his programmed dedication to duty forbade it – but there was no denying it would have been easier.

He buried his head in his hands, staring out at his white-and-gray surroundings, his eyes burning with holographic tears. He never should have told her. The threat of decompilation was no excuse. If he'd died, she would only have found it that much harder to move on. Her meticulous sense of honor would have made her feel guilty about not answering, or not feeling the same, or something – she always made things difficult for herself.

"Doctor … "

The click of high-heeled shoes, together with the loveliest voice on the ship, made him look up.

"Seven!"

He scrambled up from his desk into a standing position. His emotional subroutines ran hot and cold. His hands clenched into fists on the black tabletop. She was standing at attention with her hands clasped behind her back, her blonde head tilted slightly to the side. Her full lips were tight with apprehension as she shifted her weight, struggling to say something. He held up his hand.

"I can guess what you've come to say," he said curtly. "My – display a few hours ago was completely inappropriate, I know. I was malfunctioning. We'll just … forget that the incident in question ever happened."

Seven's lashes dropped to cover her blue eyes. "Then … am I to conclude that your declaration to me was not … true?"

His photonic heart twisted with pain. Of course – ever precise, the former Borg drone wanted to be certain of her facts.

"Well, of course it's _true,_" he snapped, avoiding her eyes. "But it's also very – how do you say it? – yes. Irrelevant."

"No, it is not," She was getting irritated. "I have not come here to reprimand you, Doctor. I came to apologize."

"Excuse me?" He was thrown. "Whatever do _you_ have to apologize for? I'm the one who just embarrassed you in front of the entire senior staff!"

"I have been the cause of your emotional damage for several years without knowing it!"

Seven's voice cracked and she looked away, her hand flying to her human eye. "You are my friend, my mentor … you have saved my life and given me back my humanity, and this is how I repay you … "

She stalked out of the office and began to pace through Sickbay like a caged tigress, trying to get herself under control. Finally she rounded on him, wearing the same expression he had sometimes seen in the Captain's eyes. Shining determination.

"I want you to know, Doctor, that I will always hold you in the highest regard," she said, as if making a solemn vow. "My – inability – to reciprocate your feelings has no relation to any flaw on your part, or to your nature as a hologram. I cannot control my emotions anymore than you can."

"Commander Chakotay," he guessed.

Her blush was answer enough for him.

He was the only being on board who knew about her secret life on the holodeck, with a room full of music and candles and a holographic Chakotay who loved her. She must be feeling just the same way I do, the Doctor realized – like a prisoner locked behind a forcefield, afraid to reach out her hand for fear of being stung.

"Well, Seven," he said, with a too-wide smile that fooled neither of them a particle. "I suppose this will be our last social lesson. Take this scenario," he began to gesture as he talked. "A man and a woman become close friends, he falls in love with her, but she loves another man instead. If he has any sense of decency, naturally the first man would step aside … and wish his friend every imaginable happiness." His voice dropped to a hush as his expressive hands fell down to his sides. "Don't you think?"

He hadn't been ertain before, but he saw it clearly now. A tear was coursing slowly down Seven's right cheek.

"Yes," she said.

"Oh, and Seven?"

She tilted her head.

"Don't wait until you think you're dying."

"I will consider it," she said.

He could tell that, beneath her impassive façade, she was appalled by the very idea, and only keeping silent because she didn't want to start another argument. But perhaps she really would consider it, and then God help Chakotay – Seven of Nine in love would be an unstoppable force. _Resistance is futile._ He smiled crookedly.

"See that you do," he said.


	23. Endgame 1

_Endgame_

2373 – Admiral's Timeline

Seven of Nine's funeral was exactly like every other funeral that had taken place aboard Voyager since the beginning of the journey. It took place in the docking bay, with the crew impeccably arrayed in their dress uniforms and the torpedo casing coffin occupying center stage under a star-spangled Federation flag.

The new, hard lines in Captain Janeway's face looked harder than ever today as she delivered Seven's eulogy. Her coppery hair, which she had stopped dyeing three years ago, was streaked with muddy grey. The Doctor privately thought that she was saying all the proper things – _good friend; exemplary officer; devoted wife and guardian; struggle for individuality; her memory will live on_ – but in a way that made the deceased sound very little like Seven of Nine. She never mentioned the personal details: how the two women used to play Velocity together, or how Janeway had gone back to rescue Seven from the Borg Queen even after Seven's apparent betrayal, or how they used to argue about faith, science, ethics and everything in between. To listen to this woman, you'd think that the Borg drone she had redeemed through years of patient hard work had been a complete stranger.

The Doctor let his gaze wander through the crowd, wondering if any of them was finding this as heartbreaking as he was. He saw Chakotay at the end of the row of senior officers, standing at parade rest, as motionless as a statue. Ensign Icheb stood on Chakotay's left side, wearing his first dress uniform, with one arm around the shoulders of a black-clad Naomi Wildman. Tuvok, whose disease was taking a turn for the worse, looked visibly unhappy. Tom and B'Elanna were standing arm in arm. (They had left Miral with Samantha Wildman at their quarters, having decided that a funeral was no place for a rambunctious toddler). Harry stood on the opposite side of the room with his band, the KimTones, who were to play a requiem after the speech. Even Neelix was watching the scene via comm screen; as usual, with his green silk suit and polka-dotted handkerchief, he was the most colorful person in the room.

The Doctor wondered what each of them would say if someone forced them to answer honestly what they were thinking. With most of them, he believed the sorrow in their faces was sincere – Naomi and Icheb, who were losing a second mother; poor Harry, who had loved Seven in his shy unspoken way; B'Elanna, who was probably tormenting herself with every sharp word they'd ever exchanged in Engineering. But the Captain? How much of that funereal dignity she wore today was nothing but a mask hiding three years' worth of bitterness?

Everybody knew that when Chakotay and Seven had announced their relationship, their separate friendships with the Captain had fizzled out. No more winks and laughter between the two big chairs on the bridge; a frosty silence had descended, broken only by commands and information. As for Velocity nights, Seven had started spending them exclusively with her boyfriend; the Doctor remembered having to fix several sprains and bruises for the middle-aged Commander out to impress.

Was it any wonder Chakotay looked like his own ghost today? Was it any wonder the Captain was looking anywhere but at him?

_Was it worth it?_ the Doctor wanted to shout. _Was taking Seven away from me – not that I had her in the first place – worth alienating the woman for whom you waited seven years? Couldn't you have held out just a little longer, or if you _had_ to marry, chosen anyone but the Captain's surrogate daughter? How could she forgive you after that?_

_And you, Janeway,_ with a glare the Captain never noticed. _Are you happy now? Did you send Seven on that away mission hoping for her to be killed, so you could have your devoted First Officer back? Well from where I'm standing, it looks like it didn't work. What hurts you the most, oh wise Captain – that she stole him, or that he stole her? _

It was very satisfying to imagine how they'd react to him stepping forward and confronting them. He'd done it before, at Ensign Jetal's funeral – Ensign Jetal! The very memory made his holographic heart ache a little more. However, he knew perfectly well that with Seven gone and Chakotay and Tuvok unreliable, there was no one to stop Janeway from doing something drastic to silence him. Such as having him reprogrammed.

Besides, Seven would not have wanted a shouting match at her funeral. For her sake, he would be dignified … efficient.

The Captain's speech was over. The Doctor straightened his tuxedo, crossed the room to join the KimTones, and connected his holocamera to a second viewscreen opposite the one on which Neelix was watching.

"I have nothing to say that hasn't already been said," he began, his quiet voice carrying into a silence deep enough to hear a pin drop. "So I'll let the music and photographs speak for me. This song was first written and performed by Herbert Grönemeyer, a German composer, in the year 2001. It's called 'There and Here'. Translation is provided on the slideshow. Thank you."

The KimTones started up a slow, simple melody, as different from the flamboyant opera and finger-snapping jazz the Doctor had once preferred as funerals are from weddings.

He delivered the German lyrics in a style that was as much speaking as singing; showing off his perfectly programmed pitch and vocal range was unthinkable today.

"_Night carries every heavy burden, _

_it relieves the day of duty._

_The moon stands still doing nothing again._

_I close my eyes and think of you."_

The slideshow ran behind him as he sang, showing all the pictures of Seven he had taken over the years. Seven as an unconscious Borg drone, the first day of her arrival. Seven posing with Naomi and the Borg children at _Voyager_'s first Annual Science Fair. Seven and B'Elanna making repairs, their faces lit by the blue glow of the warp core. Seven in Astrometrics, silhouetted against a glowing purple nebula.

"_Will someone be there when you break your wing?_

_To set it for you, to protect you?_

_To wait up for you, carry you on clouds_

_and count the stars for you when you sleep?"_

Seven standing with the Captain at a Prixin festival, with paper garlands and a jukebox in the background. Seven in church, her face touched by multicolored lights from a stained-glass window. Seven pinning on Icheb's first pip at his graduation. The wedding pictures – Chakotay smiling so widely, his face looked like a round bronze coin; Seven impassive as always in her white gown and veil.

"_I try to program a dream for myself:_

_I imagine you coming back to me. _

_I should just stop overloading my brain_

_since you are there and I am here."_

There were many more pictures showing her as the strong, poised, lovely and beloved woman she had been. A woman who had reclaimed her soul from the Borg day by day, bit by bit; who had lived and died with the determination to be herself. The slideshow ended with her silhouette by the viewport in the mess hall, her face glowing beside a background of stars.

A small noise – a sob or a sniff – echoed into the silence after the Doctor's song. Following its direction, he saw Captain Janeway placing her hands on the torpedo casing. Her lips moved, whispering something which nobody heard. For a moment, the softness in her eyes made her look ten years younger.

_So,_ thought the Doctor. _You haven't quite replaced your heart with a dilithium crystal after all. You did care, and for Seven's sake, I promise to keep you human. _

As she stepped back, Ensign Icheb blew the boatswain's whistle, and the coffin was beamed into space, the Doctor made his way over to the Captain.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"So am I, Doctor," she replied, touching his arm, just like the old Kathryn Janeway. "Believe me, so am I."


	24. Endgame 2

_Endgame_

2371 – New Timeline

The first Voyager Anniversary was a night of champagne, helium balloons, dancing, long speeches and even longer gossip sessions. There was an enormous slab of cake iced with a picture of the ship, soaring above Golden Gate Bridge in a shower of fireworks, which now that the Captain had made the first cut, was rapidly disappearing Laughter and cheerful voices resounded through the hall … except for one spot where two people stood opposite each other, enveloped in a bubble of silence as if they were the only ones in the room. They hardly even noticed when Tom and B'Elanna, who had carefully steered them into each other's conversation range, made themselves scarce.

"Doctor."

"Seven."

They exchanged nods, exactly as he had taught her, feeling like two strangers meeting for the very first time. The last time they had seen each other was at the debriefings, almost a year ago, where Chakotay had hovered behind her like a protective bear and they'd hardly exchanged a word.

"How are you? And how is Icheb?"

"Fine, thank you. He is progressing admirably in his studies." Seven glanced proudly over the Doctor's shoulder, watching the young Cadet talking happily with the Wildmans.

"I've heard you were offered a post as science officer on the _Pioneer._ Congratulations."

"I have not yet decided to accept. I have heard that _you_ joined your creator and Lieutenant Barclay at the Daystrom Institute. How are you finding it?"

"Excellent," the Doctor declared lightly. "Never a dull moment. Sometimes the old man and I are at each other's throats, metaphorically speaking, and other times I feel like … like the luckiest hologram in the world." Even as he said it, however, all the things which made him less than that crowded back into his mind, and his smile faded away.

"Lieutenant Barclay offered me a position there as well. It seemed like a unique opportunity, but … " The implied prospect of the two of them working together, seeing each other every day, made her cut off the sentence unfinished.

At that moment, the old jukebox in the corner (identical to the one replicated by Tom Paris for every birthday, wedding, First Contact Day, Ancestor's Eve and Delta Quadrant Anniversary aboard _Voyager_) began to play an old, familiar song: _Someone To Watch Over Me_, by Frank Sinatra.

Seven was not wearing her dermoplastic suit. She had not done so since her first days on Earth, claiming that since her body had adapted to the absence of her Borg exoskeleton, she did not need it anymore. Instead she wore a silvery-purple top with long sleeves and a square neckline, flared black trousers, and silver ballet flats. Her hair was down, held together at the back with one wide silver hairclip. She looked softer this way, more more human, and simply too beautiful for words. The Doctor never knew what came over him.

"May I have this dance?"

"You may."

She placed one hand into his hand and the other on his shoulder as naturally as if they'd been dancing every day since their first dance. For a while, neither of them spoke; the memories were overwhelming. To touch again, to dance again … how long had it been? And why – _why_ – had they allowed all this time to pass without being in each other's arms? Suppressed emotions came boiling up, strong enough to take them both by surprise – and not only good ones, either.

"You didn't come to my hearing." He did not mean to sound accusing, but he did. His sentience trial had been a long and difficult ordeal, and though his other shipmates had helped enormously, Seven's absence had taken all the joy out of his victory.

"You had the records of my testimony from your previous trial over your holonovel."

"That's not what I meant. I … I would have preferred to _see_ you, Seven."

"You never asked." Seven's tone grew sharp to match his, even as they continued to dance as smoothly as two figurines in a music box.

"Since when do you and I need to _ask_ about these things?"

"I thought you did not wish to see me again!"

The Doctor, taken aback, almost bumped her into another couple and steered them away just in time.

"What in the name of sanity made you think _that_?"

"Your – declaration. After _Voyager_'s last encounter with the Hierarchy." _When you told me you loved me. _"I was trying to minimize emotional damage for both of us."

"Wait, wait, wait … " The Doctor's grip on her tightened. "_Both_ of us? What damage? I thought you were happy – you're with Chakotay now. Aren't you?"

"I am not."

The Doctor's wide eyes and the sudden catch of his breath told her everything she needed to know.

"_How_?" he asked, in a barely audible hush.

She gestured to their left with her head. "Observe."

The couple dancing next to them were Chakotay and Kathryn Janeway, cheek to cheek, swaying dreamily together as she whispered something into his ear. Judging by the appearance of his dimples, it was something mischievous. In her cream-colored dress, she looked like an ice cream sundae melting into his arms.

"Oh, _Seven_ … "

"I have had eight months to recover," she replied, turning away with calm resignation. "There is no need to pity me, Doctor. The Commander ended our relationship shortly after your sentience trial. Not only were we incompatible, but apparently he has been in love with the Captain since they first met. The only reason they did not pursue a relationship long ago was Starfleet's fraternization policy."

"Now that's just ridiculous."

"I agree."

The song changed. It was "You Are My Sunshine" – not _their_ version, but a slower one, sung by a woman and accompanied by a single piano. The Doctor and Seven turned to take a suspicious look at the surroundings of the jukebux, but nobody they knew was close enough to have programmed it. They caught each other's eye and, as always, knew what the other was thinking.

"You've learned to smile," he observed softly. "It suits you."

"I have always known," she said. "I simply considered it irrelevant … until I met you."

The smile and the outfit weren't the only changes about her, he noted uneasily. The old Seven would not have spoken to him like that, in that tone of voice. It sounded positively like flirting, but it couldn't be … could it?

"Er … clarify?" he said.

She drew a little closer. "I gave you up once, and I have no intention of repeating that mistake. I know you still love me, Doctor, and I … " she flushed like a sunrise as her blue eyes met his. "I have loved you since we first danced together, but I did not dare to tell you until now."

The last lines of the song fell gently into the silence between them.

_So won't you come back and make me happy?  
I'll forgive you dear, I'll take all the blame._

"What about Chakotay?" the Doctor whispered, hardly daring to breathe in case of disturbing the moment. "He was … he was your dream."

"Reality is superior," she declared, pulling him in for a kiss in the middle of the dancefloor.

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,  
you make me happy when skies are gray.  
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you -  
please don't take my sunshine away._

When they broke apart, they were met with a storm of applause from their shipmates. Naomi Wildman bounced and squeaked. Chakotay and the Captain smiled, sincerely happy. Tuvok raised an approving eyebrow and shared a look with T'Pel. Icheb, standing between Paris and Torres, looked from one to the other with a face as proud and happy as an ex-Borg could manage.

"Nice work on the jukebox, kid," Paris whispered.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."


End file.
